


Delope

by Mira_Jade



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: . . . and Alexander Hamilton being Alexander Hamilton, . . . sometimes, Angst, Character Study, Drabble Collection, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Infidelity, Introspection, Miscarriage, Multi, Proudly featuring the trials and tribulations of Dad!George, Sometimes everything is beautiful and nothing hurts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-05 06:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Delope:</i> the art of throwing away one's shot in order to end a duel. In this instance: a collection of drabbles, ficlets, and various other odds and ends. </p><p>Next up: With Lafayette imprisoned by the Austrians, Hamilton and Jefferson reach a truce to work together and grant him American aid. Unofficially, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "nearer than the sky" | Hamilton & Ensemble

**Author's Note:**

> Because I had too many bits and pieces adding up that I wanted to share, and I figured that it was time to create a home for them. Thus, you may expect little bite sized pieces of prose featuring everything and everyone as these go on.

Later, when attempting to give a human voice to the fury of the heavens and the havoc they visited upon the earth, he would, at first, be unable to summon his words. The destruction of Christiansted was an impossibility to describe with any justice, and he could not immediately move his pen and dip deep from the veritable inkwell of inspiration ever waiting within his mind. _At first._  
  
But he would always, _ever_ , remember this: first, the heavens were merciless, and the sea treacherous. Second: even the deafening clash of thunder could be drowned out by the menace of hurricane-winds, and one fork of lightning could flash more blindingly than the sun itself. Third: storm-winds could howl as if the very denizens of hell were unleashed upon the living, and they moved twice as violently about the land. Forth: rain could slice like knives, and waves could burst through the creations of man the same as an angry child displeased with a favorite toy. Fifth: there was no pity in a storm, and the devastation it wreaked was total and blind.  
  
In conclusion: he learned that it was up to himself, only himself, to survive, to _endure_. For the storm cared not, it pitied not; it physically _c_ _ould_ _not_ , for it had not of a heart to feel, nor a head to reason, or eyes with which to see. It bore only hands, _fists_ , and to escape its rage would ever be up to him, and him alone.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
The most shocking thing about America when compared to the Caribbean was, at first, the cold; he could not seem to escape it. No matter the precautions he took to shield himself, a chill managed to seep beneath his coat, finding its way through his jacket and pores to settle deep within his bones, unerringly and without fail. During his first autumn in New York, the city seemed to constantly lay underneath a grey specter of stormclouds, and he was rarely safe from the deluge as he trekked between King's College and Mulligan's shop, racing to escape the cold kiss of the rain with every step.  
  
“It's only September, you know,” the Irishman's grin had a way of splitting his face in two as Hamilton rung out the water from his cap – again. The expression, as ever, made Mulligan's eyes squint, turning his usually jovial humor into something sharp, nearly shark-like. “The weather only gets worse from here on out.”  
  
“You are a ray of sunshine, Herc, has anyone ever told you that?” Hamilton muttered as he gratefully took the mug of hot wine Cato had brought to him in mercy. He gave up his wet cap as a lost cause.  
  
When Mulligan did not reply, and instead looked up from the jacket he was mending to toss a pair of thick woolen mittens his way, Hamilton just barely avoided catching the gift before they splashed in his mug. Turning the gloves over, he could easily espy the tailor's careful, tidy hand in the knitting, and knew -  
  
“You did not fight to make your way here only to lose your fingers to frostbite,” Mulligan shrugged, his voice bright, even when he refused to look up and meet his eyes. “And I won't have your losing your ability to pen your words – and pay your rent – on my head.”  
  
Though his words were gruff, Hamilton could nonetheless _see_ , and, remembering the empty threat of thunder next to the tangible violence of hurricane-winds, he fought the urge he had to smile.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
No matter how they fought to layer pine boughs beneath their sleeping rolls, trying their best to keep the frigid earth from leeching away warmth like a thief in the night, the fact remained that very air they breathed was heavy with the onset of winter, and the sides of their tent were damp with rain as the heavens opened and poured down on their canvas ceiling. Very few men slept in any sort of comfort that night, and many were huddled together as he and Laurens were, desperately trying to trap what heat they could beneath their blankets and uniforms, and thus hold that life-giving warmth closer to their bodies. Hamilton flexed his fingers in his woolen mittens - nearly threadbare now - and when he exhaled his breath misted from his mouth, forming a damp spot on Laurens' frost-stiff jacket.  
  
Somewhere beyond their camp, there was the not-so-distant sound of rumbling cannon-fire, heralding just how close the British were to closing in on Washington's position. He closed his eyes against the sound, and instead attempted to focus on the babble of the river, on the pitter-patter of the freezing rain striking the canvas. Stubbornly, he grit his teeth to pretend that he could not hear the sound of a man praying, low and mournful, in the tent nearest to their own; he clenched his jaw to fool himself into believing that every time the horses neighed he was not ready to find his feet and the musket by their bedside and _fight_. Instead, he focused on the sound of Laurens' heartbeat as he closed his eyes against his chest, until -  
  
“That's not cannon-fire,” Laurens muttered, his voice small as it was taken by the cold and the dark. "Not this time.”  
  
It was thunder, Hamilton understood, and not the rumble of heavy artillery. It was: “Only a storm,” he breathed on an exhale. And then he knew, as a flicker of storm-light, “I've been through worse than this before . . . we'll be okay, John, you'll see.”  
  
And so, he closed his eyes, and with the thunder still drumming in his ears, he tried to find his slumber.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
The storm that night was a loud, angry thing, battering against the windows and rattling the shutters as the house sighed to stand its ground against the torment of the heavens above.  
  
Hamilton laid awake through the onslaught, holding his wife and waiting for the inevitable as one resigned. In the dark, Eliza's eyes were also open, and when the lightning flashed, he could see the warm, deep colour of her gaze.  
  
“We are, my charmer,” he whispered between the peals of thunder, “about to suffer an invasion by enemy forces.”  
  
“Should we put up defenses?” Eliza's reply was punctuated by a pair of small, stockinged feet whispering across the floorboards. One, and then another, Hamilton's sharp ears picked out.  
  
“Futile,” he smiled into the storm to say, “for they are already upon us.”  
  
When the children crawled into bed between them – not enemy soldiers, but refugees begging asylum - Philip's eyes were very wide, so wide that he could see the whites of his son's gaze, even without the glow of the lightning through the windows. When little Angelica snuggled against his chest, so easily trusting him to protect her against the large sounds of the angry heavens, her heart was skipping as fast as a snare-drum. The simple trust she held in his ability to protect her from any sort of harm was a humbling thing, and he held his family close in a tangle of arms and legs, soothing away their small fears and whispering into their ears until the storm passed, and all was calm once more.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
The summer storm was hot and lazy, steaming the windows and turning the air heavy around them, reminding Hamilton of St. Croix in a way he had not considered in many a year. The heat was sticky and tangible, even in the middle of the night, so much so that he could not suffer pulling Eliza's quilt up from the foot of the bed to cover himself. Instead, there was only a thin white sheet draped over his hips as he absently ran a hand over the curve of Maria's shoulder, writing out a nonsense string of words as he stared at the raindrops running down the glass windowpanes. Unseen in the dark, he felt his mouth dip into a frown to wonder: did it rain upstate? Did it storm?  
  
The question haunted him as the thunder rumbled, shaking the earth and reverberating in his bones to settle behind the chamber of his heart. It plagued him to imagine Eliza allowing their children into her bed and soothing away their fears while he was so far away from them . . . in more ways than one. Philip would pretend he was much too old for such things now, Hamilton could picture the scene in his mind's eyes, and Angelica would find her own courage as she whispered into Alexander's ear, soothing her younger brother as she herself was once soothed, whispering _it is only noise, it is only sound_ while knowing not of what her father knew. All the while, Eliza would hold little James close as he found his fledgling words to inquire about the violence of the heavens, while he . . .  
  
. . . Hamilton merely closed his eyes, unable to bear holding Maria close in the heat, and tried to sleep against the sound of thunder.


	2. "peace and quiet" | Washington & Hamilton

At first, it took him a moment to understand what was missing that summer's morning.  
  
It began much as usual, with him awakening to a dull pressure already building behind his temples as he thought of the tasks and missives and peoples that were waiting to be seen to that day. Firmly, he pushed away the marching order of his thoughts in favor of rising to tend to his morning ablutions in some sort of peaceful tranquility before facing the storm that day already promised to be. It was not until he was seated at his desk with a cup of tea held firmly in hand, no matter the already stifling heat of the day, that he realized what was missing.  
  
There was, he noticed, no scratching of quills on parchment . . . there was no well meaning bickering as his aides muttered and debated amongst themselves as they broke their own fast . . . and there was not of one Alexander Hamilton, with his eyes fever bright and his words firing off as grapeshots as he yet again asked for what he did not understand -  
  
\- sharply, Washington then focused his gaze on James McHenry, whom, he belatedly noticed, was the only one of his aides afoot, and looking particularly miserable in a way that had nothing to do with his full uniform and the already humid weight of the hot air pressing in against them.  
  
“Where,” he started his inquiry as slowly as he could, a tellingly ominous feeling forming in the pit of his stomach – the likes of which he had not felt since leaving New York in flames or losing Philadelphia to the enemy, “is Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton this morning?”  
  
“He . . . ” McHenry hesitated, and a high colour washed over his perspiring cheeks. Washington clearly saw the surgeon consider a lie, and he allowed his brow to sharpen in answer to the unspoken. He frowned, his displeasure clear, and the younger man instantly melted as wax before a flame. “He may or may not be standing as Lieutenant Colonel Laurens' second in a duel,” his words came out jumbled and fast, with one syllable quickly following another, “but I know nothing about that, not really.”  
  
“A duel?” Washington dumbly parroted as he tried to comprehend McHenry's words. A terrible thought then struck him, and he all but thundered, “With _whom?"_  
   
“General Lee,” McHenry swallowed before answering. “They . . . um, they seem to be fighting for your honor, Your Excellency.”  
  
“My _honor?"_ Washington sputtered, feeling his migraine exponentially grow to grip his temples in its unforgiving vice. Even so, he rose to his feet - his tea sadly forgotten – and gestured for McHenry to follow him, grimly knowing that his skills as a doctor may yet be needed. For he was unwilling to allow their nearly sacred war against tyranny and oppression to read as a chapter from a book featuring knights in shining armor and damsels in distress - especially when _he_ was cast as the damsel.  
  
And, somewhat wistfully, he lamented: it _had_ been a quiet morning.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The following morning was quiet . . . entirely too quiet.  
  
Every sound was amplified: the rustling of paper and the clinking of cups upon saucers, a sigh here and an exhale of breath there. From beyond his command tent, he could hear the neighing of horses and the low chatter of passing soldiers – all with too much clarity to count amongst the norm, for breakfast was never such a quiet affair between his aides . . . except that, with the loss of one Alexander Hamilton, it now was.  
  
To that end, he noticed the way John Laurens stared with too much intensity at the missive laid out before him, unwilling – or unable – to look up and meet his eyes. His mouth was pressed in a thin line and his expression was sullen – and not, Washington thought, out of remorse for his own place in the whole Lee debacle. McHenry too was determined to keep his words to himself and his gaze downturned – though not to avoid provoking his commander's displeasure, but his comrades', Washington noticed with a stifled sigh.  
  
The only one willing – and brave enough – to look up and meet his gaze was Lafayette, and the Frenchman did so with a clear challenge written in his eyes. Taking up the gauntlet, he narrowed his own eyes to return the glare, all but daring him to comment on the matter. When Lafayette said nothing, he went back to drinking his tea in silence, feeling the younger man's eyes bore into him all the while.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
   
Their morning started out in an altogether quiet manner – which was an oddity for the hectic current of hustle and bustle he'd found New York to be thus far. Though their days had smoothed out into somewhat of a routine, the Osgood House did not yet feel like a home, and after almost nine years of war - living in tents and seeking out lodging from the charity of others - to once again feel as a traveler passing through on a sojourn was not a state of being he particularly cared for, nor was it one he enjoyed putting Martha through, especially after everything she had given up and endured in the name of their fledgling country so far.  
  
Which was why that morning was a reprieve, of sorts, as a cocooning fall of spring rain streamed down the windowpanes, obscuring both the sight and the sound of the urban landscape just beyond their walls. The day was comfortably soft and cool, and he enjoyed breaking his fast with his wife in relative quiet, with nothing of more importance than Nelly's harpsichord lessons or a letter from his brother detailing affairs back in Virginia being discussed between them. The stolen moment was a reprieve before the inevitable chaos of the day to come, and he allowed himself to enjoy every moment of it. Truly, he had not spent enough meaningful time with Martha as of late, and he was distracted from giving her words his full attention by staring at the dark colour of her eyes - still enchanting to him after well over twenty years of marriage - and he was just finding his words to tell her so when -  
  
\- there was the tell-tale sound of rushing feet from the corridor beyond the parlor. Washington winced, knowing only one person who would dare run through the halls in a manner so closely resembling a herd of stampeding cattle - and only one other who would chase after him, at that, as children both rushing to tattle to their parents as one so as to ensure that punishment was not unfairly dolled upon themselves and not the other.  
  
With a sigh, he placed his tea cup down on its saucer and reached up to rub at his temples, even as Martha reached the same conclusion as he and gave a wry smile to conspiratorially mutter, “Brace yourself, my dear, for I do believe that the children are afoot.”  
  
She reached across the table to take his hand, and he returned the affection with a small smile – once again thanking Providence for the undeserved gift of his wife - before turning to the door just in time to hear Alexander Hamilton burst in and exclaim, “Sir, whatever Jefferson is about to say is a _lie_ , a gross distortion of the truth, and I can prove it by - ”  
  
Washington merely rolled his eyes heavenwards, and mourned the death of his quiet morning as the day began in earnest.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
So far, retirement was everything he had wanted it to be; filled with the peace and quiet of the country and broken only by the distractions of directing as vast an estate as Mount Vernon after its many years of neglect and lax management. Their return home, to _their_ home, saw Martha's spirits bolstered such as he had not known since their first years of marriage, and both Nelly and Wash seemed to blossom underneath the fresh air and unobstructed sunlight to be found in the bountiful southern hills. For the most part, the easy turn of the days - like navigating the winding turns of a calm river after knowing stormy seas for much too long - suited him, and he was prepared to enjoy the rest of his time in what peace and comfort he could.  
  
. . . for the most part.  
  
Some days, when he would fetch his old chestnut stallion from the pasture to tour his farms, the retired warhorse would prick his ears up as if expecting them to ride into a charge, and he nickered eagerly for the idea, no matter his age and the peace of his retirement thus far. It was, Washington reflected, a sentiment he could empathize with in its entirely. On other days, if there were ever times when he found the peace and the quiet to be taxing, or the simple routine of the farming seasons to be too mundane, he simply recalled his more trying hours as both commander-in-chief of the Continental Army and as president of the United States. Both served to be ample antidotes against his longings for a return to a more diverse pace of life . . . for the most part.  
  
Yet, if he was being completely honest with himself - which he normally endeavored to be – such reminders did not serve to put his mind at ease in its entirety.  
  
Which was why, when a letter from Alexander Hamilton arrived, detailing the actions of French privateers off of their coastline and asking for his advice – if not for his aid, not yet – he did not reply with simple pleasantries and excuses enough to side-step the mantle of duty as he once again found it thrust upon him. Instead, he took out a fresh piece of parchment and begin to draft his reply in earnest, his mind already spinning as he applied himself to the latest issues threatening their young country.  
  
. . . and if the quiet of his morning was broken, once again, by the younger man, he only smiled, and looked forward to the rest of the day to come.


	3. "for your lullaby" | Angelica & Eliza, The Washingtons, Hamilton & Jefferson

Perhaps somewhat auspiciously, Philip Hamilton came into the world screaming; little fists flailing, and tiny lungs visibly drawing in air through his wide open mouth to announce his presence in the most vocal of ways.  
  
Eliza looked battle-weary and exhausted to Angelica's watchful eye, with her hair sticking messily to her neck and her brow wet with perspiration, no matter Peggy's diligent ministrations to keep their sister comfortable and clean throughout her time. But there was something fierce and burning in Eliza's eyes, a mother's particular brand of strength and instinctual determination, allowing her to rise above her discomfort and her fatigue. For, at last, her day long struggle to bear her son was clearly pushed to the back of her mind when she heard his first cries – healthy and robust and _alive,_ stealing her heart as quickly as Angelica's was stolen. She could not quite keep from smiling as she aided the midwife with cleaning the newborn child, fussing over the infant while Peggy helped Eliza clean up and recover from the ordeals of her labor.  
  
When, finally, Angelica perched on her sister's bedside to hand her the swaddled babe to nurse, she watched the way Eliza's eyes fell to hungrily examine her son, her every sense closely attuned to the new life she now had to nurture and protect. Eliza slowly traced the soft curve of his cheek before gently outlining the crown of his head, feeling the fine fuzz of his black hair with wondering, reverent fingers. Angelica watched her all the while, leaning over to rest her chin atop her sister's shoulder as something unnamable twisted in her heart, seemingly fit to burst as she watched her nephew snuggle contentedly against his mother's chest after reaching his fill. His big brown eyes were already drowsy with contentment, blinking up with an awareness that she was sure was beyond the intelligence of most babes. And, seeing such, she thought -  
  
“ - he has his father's eyes,” Angelica gave her musings a voice. She then added, somewhat ruefully, “Be wary of that, dearest: he shall break hearts and ignite tempers from one state to the next, I fear.”  
  
Eliza made a soft, amused sound as she continued to trace the shape of her son's tiny features with her fingertips. “I do not know if the world is yet ready for another Hamilton unleashed upon its face,” she admitted wryly. “Yet, here he is now, and if his father too could be . . . ”  
  
Patiently, Angelica waited, but her sister could not find the words to finish her thought. Eliza swallowed, clearly gathering her bravery in the face of knowing that somewhere, on some unknown battlefield an unknown distance away, her husband struggled and warred for their nation's birth, much as she had labored to bring their son into the world. And, just as with the uncertainties of the birthing-room, they did not know . . .  
  
\- but no. _No._  
  
Pushing away her own fears, her own longings, Angelica gathered her courage to say, “Your husband will be home soon, Eliza, you'll see. When he returns, the only thing dearer to him than you shall be this child you have given him.”  
  
Eliza was quiet for a long, uncertain moment. When she blinked, Angelica could see where her eyelashes cut through her tears, even as she muttered, “I pray for just such a future to pass . . . so much so that God must tire of listening to me.”  
  
But Angelica could do her one better than the uncertainty of prayer: “I _know_ your future will be so; just you wait.”  
  
She then wrapped an arm about her sister's shoulders and squeezed, holding her embrace until Eliza sighed in contentment and her eyes dried of tears. As if they were still young girls, piling into bed together with giggles or seeking solace from nightmares and storms, Eliza leaned back against her nest of pillows and Angelica settled in next to her. Where her husband yet could not, she ran a soothing hand though her sister's hair and traced nonsense patterns on her back as Eliza finally closed her eyes for a much deserved rest, her son safe and cradled between the two of them.  
  
Still holding her sister close, Angelica looked down . . . staring to see _Alexander's_ eyes blink up at her as little Philip fought against the veil of sleep. She felt a pang looking at the child's eyes, for a wistful moment allowing herself to imagine -  
  
\- but no . . . no. Such useless yearnings had no place in her heart but to do it a wound; such empty wantings would only serve as a blade sinking deep between rib-bones, and she wanted no more of its sting. Instead, she curled herself around her sister and nephew, and let the sound of their breathing take her until the dawn.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
There was something utterly captivating about holding an infant child close.  
  
Though there were many gathered at the Hamilton residence to welcome the latest of Alexander's brood into the world, George Washington patiently waited his turn with the swaddled babe. The boy was wide-eyed for the company bustling around him, and he already observed all he could see with a quiet consideration working behind the familiar, earthen colour of his eyes. Another one of Hamilton's sons had inherited his inquisitive stare, George noticed, and he stifled a chuckle to wonder if the world was quite ready for such a force unleashed upon its surface once more.  
  
When Eliza went to show him how to hold the child, he only smiled to assure her, “I am not completely ignorant on such matters, madam.” His voice was nonetheless soft for seeing the way she tucked in her son's bonnet and flushed to draw her hand away. Though John Church was her fifth child born, she still fussed and fretted as if he was her first, and such affectionate care was something he could not fault her for.  
  
Even so, he had spoken true: though he and Martha had never been blessed with a child of their own, he had younger siblings and extended family aplenty. Even more dear to him, he remembered how little Patsy had fit in his arms when he first courted his wife-to-be . . . remembered her first steps and first words and the trusting shape of her wide, dark eyes . . . no matter the bittersweet shape of that memory now. As if summoned by his thoughts, he felt, more than saw, Martha come to stand by his side. She leaned over to look at the babe with a soft expression upon her features, perhaps remembering her own lost little ones, much as he did.  
  
The baby only gave a toothless grin for the new face he had peering down at him, and clumsily reached out his tiny, uncoordinated hands to clutch at his finger when George softly traced the baby's cheek, completely taken by the youngster as he was. Martha gave a soft sort of sigh, and only when he looked up to assure himself that the rest of the company was quite absorbed by Hamilton at the head of the room - reading off a congratulatory letter from Lafayette in a flamboyant tone as he rather impressively mimicked the marquis' accent - did he step closer to his wife. For a moment they went unobserved but for Eliza's careful eye on her son, and he swallowed a sigh of his own as Martha leaned her head to rest against his arm.  
  
Though he could not say that he had many regrets in life - truly, he instead knew his many blessings - there were still times when he wondered, perhaps somewhat wistfully, what their lives would have been like if they had a child of their own. Such was a thought that ever gnawed at him, for, in the beginning, he had little more than himself to offer Martha in a marriage. A modest estate, a soldier's reputation for bravery and courage under fire, his steely determination and an unspoken promise of _more_ _-_ such were trifles when compared to what she could have demanded from a husband . . . when compared to what other suitors _had_ offered her, at that. Yet, for some reason he still could not quite understand, she had chosen him, _him_ . . . and for him to fail to give her the one thing that should have been without question in a marriage . . . It was a knowledge that burned as a knife slipping behind his lungs at times, and its sting was one he cared but little for.  
  
But he swallowed against his thoughts, and looked down at the child he held so as to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone else in the room. Even so, Martha looked up at him, a furrowed line appearing between her brows to say that she still knew exactly what he was thinking at any given moment in time. “Stop that,” she chastised in a soft tone of command that nonetheless humored no disobedience. “You have given me more than I could have hoped for in this life, and I'll not have your own mind sabotaging what should be a happy evening.”  
  
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, both out of rote and true appreciation for her words. Underneath the cover of her peering over to better see the child, he could feel where her small hands wrapped about his arm, buoying his strength with her own, much as she ever did. He could feel her smile through the material of his sleeve as Hamilton reached a high-point of the letter, and the entire gathering laughed in reply.  
  
“And, that said,” she whispered, something soft and wry about her voice, “I cannot say that we have not had our parental urges more than met in our lives. Providence has more than seen to that, my love.”  
  
Her logic was something he could not disagree with, not in the slightest, and he at last let out a deep breath. His stiff posture relaxed, just slightly, and he even smiled a full smile when the babe in his arms let out a cooing string of nonsense words, batting his hands happily in the air all the while. Across the crowd, he met Hamilton's eyes as the letter reached its end, and he knew that he had betrayed something fond – perhaps even proud – in his gaze when the younger man looked down, his cheeks flushing, before looking up again and inclining his head in acknowledgment. For a long moment, he did not look away.  
  
And so: “Providence has indeed blessed us,” George finally agreed with his wife, holding the child in his arms tighter to mutter, “without a doubt.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
The eyes following him as he made his way to his office were wide with confusion and surprise. Hamilton ignored them all through force of habit, and if he was disconcerted by instead dodging looks that were steeped in pity and empathy instead of speculation and outright dislike, he swallowed the feeling away as if it was never there to begin with.  
  
Such self-denial was something he was becoming frighteningly adapt at, Hamilton thought with a sigh. But, that thought too he simply ignored, and turned his mind to march away from without looking back. Instead, he sat down at his desk and took out a clean sheaf of parchment, letting the ebb and flow of his work take him until there was not a spot on his desk that was not free from missives in various states of drying and the floor around him was littered with discarded drafts and ideas. He could not seem to write fast enough, and his fury stained his fingers black, just as his forehead was smeared with ink from where he had more than once reached up to mop at his sweating brow, no matter the coolness of his office from the barren winter's day beyond.  
  
When the tip of his quill split – again – for his exerting too much pressure on the instrument, he loudly swore as ink streamed down his fingers to blot his words, marring his sentences to an irreparable degree. Frustration searing through his veins, he threw the now useless tool to the ground to join the graveyard of discarded papers awaiting the rubbish bin.  
  
For a long moment, Hamilton stared at the mess surrounding him before reaching down to pull open his desk drawer for a new quill. But when his questing hand instead bumped into something hard and round he frowned to take out the object, a sinking feeling filling his stomach to find a baby's rattle . . . a toy he had bought on impulse the day Eliza first told him she was again expecting. His heart had been full fit to burst, he recalled with a pang, and now that joy only seemed to turn on him as a bayonet in the gut as he ran a thumb over the small, gayly coloured toy to think: his son - or his daughter, for now they'd never know - would never wrap their tiny fingers about his gift. It was not his to give . . . for he had no child to expect, not any longer, for they had lost . . .  
  
His fingers tightened about the rattle, and he felt an impulse to throw the toy to join the wreck of dead ideas and unrealized dreams littering the floor. Instead, he felt the alarming burn of tears build behind his eyes, and a strangled sort of sound escaped his mouth quite without warning. He swallowed his sob away, even as his lungs still heaved in his chest without his consent, unwilling - or perhaps unable - to draw in a steady breath. For a moment, he could not call his body to order, and he instead held onto the rattle as if it were a lifeline in turbulent waters, clenching his eyes shut against his grief and telling himself that no - _no_. He was done with tears; he would shed no more.  
  
It was then that he heard a soft knock, and his simply glaring at the door and wondering who would have the nerve to disturb him on such a day was for naught when the door opened to show the last face he'd thought to expect. His eyes narrowed in a reflexive motion, and he only just fought the urge he had to bare his teeth to see Thomas Jefferson's unbearable countenance staring down at the mess he'd made of his office, a brow clearly raised and his eyes shaded with some emotion that Hamilton could not quite - and did not much care - to accurately define.  
  
“What,” Hamilton fought a losing battle to file the sharp edges away from his words, “are _you_ doing here?” There was no welcome in his voice, and his hand trembled as he placed the rattle down, hating that his rival could clearly see him do so – for there was not a way to hide it, not as ambushed as he was.  
  
“I,” Jefferson's eyes followed the rattle as it rolled once . . . twice . . . on his desk and then settled, “was going to ask the same of you. No one expected you in today.” Hamilton heard the not so subtle censure in the other man's voice, and he could only snort, somewhat disbelievingly, in reply.  
  
“If you are only here to inquire about my _well-being_ , Mr. Secretary,” Hamilton all but threw his words as spears, “I'd ask that you leave. I'm fine. Great, even. _Super_.”  
  
Jefferson frowned in reply, his expression bristling. He gave a sharp sigh as he turned back towards the door, his normally boneless way of moving then tight with frustration. Hamilton watched him, wondering why the other man had even bothered visiting in the first place, when Jefferson stopped and paused. At some length, he clearly came to a decision within himself; stiffly, he turned to meet his eyes with an unflinching gaze.  
  
“I wished to offer my condolences,” Jefferson said, his words absent of any mockery or cutting edge. Hamilton strained his ears, but could hear no undercurrents of ill intent in his strangely emotionless tone of voice. “There is no greater pain that that of losing a child, I know . . . it's a pain I'd not even wish on _you_.”  
  
The state secretary clearly hesitated, and he once again reached for the handle of the door before stopping to add, “And . . . throwing yourself in your work will only help so much. Take it from someone who knows: you'll be better served by going home. What comfort there is to be had you'll only find there . . . in time, at least.”  
  
Robbed of any coherency in which to formulate a reply, Hamilton only stared, somewhat dumbfounded as the other man held his eyes – and Hamilton then recognized the shadow about his expression as a mirror of his own gaze as Jefferson looked down at the rattle one last time. He then turned and truly took his leave, clearly caring but little to stretch out any interaction between them for any longer than need be without a presidential mandate forcing them together.  
  
Hamilton merely sat at his desk for a long, long time before carefully putting the rattle back in his drawer, there to safely rest until he could pull it out again with any sort of composure. Then, leaving his papers where they lay, he picked up his discarded jacket and left his office behind.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Fun Facts** :
> 
> George and Martha never had children of their own (George may have been infertile due to a teenage bout with smallpox and subsequent treatment with mercury oxide). When they married, Martha had two of her four children from her first marriage still living. Martha "Patsy" was only two, and George dotted on her as if she was his own daughter until her death from epilepsy as a teenager. George had a more complicated relationship with Martha's son, John, who died of camp fever at Yorktown. But, when John's widow remarried, George and Martha took in their two youngest children, Nelly and Wash, and raised them as their own. So they were never particularly 'childless', you could say - and that's not counting the younger men like Lafayette and *cough*Hamilton*/cough* Washington seemed to collect.
> 
> Eliza did miscarry a baby in the winter of 1794. Stress from John Church, then two years old, barely surviving a deathly illness, and Alexander's much being gone on business for the nation were both factors in her losing the child. The next January, perhaps influenced by his family's trials, Hamilton resigned his position of Treasury Secretary. Perhaps it is a bit of a stretch that Jefferson would offer his condolences, but Jefferson had only one daughter out of six children (with his wife) survive past the age of twenty-five, and if anyone could understand what Hamilton was going through, it was him. I'd imagine that such a tragedy would call for a cease-fire. At least for a day or so. ;)


	4. "in from the cold" | Hamilton & Ensemble

  
There was, Hamilton decided, not one redeeming quality to be found in the cold winters of northern America. He hated every aspect of the season: from the ever constant chill in the air, to the way the cold seeped into his fingers, sapping him of his written words and chapping his cheeks, turning his throat raw and all but dry to his use. He particularly loathed the way the ground turned treacherously slippery with the plunging temperatures - especially when he was absorbed in his own mind, and could not be distracted by such trifle tasks as paying attention to the icy cobblestones when walking – just as he most _certainly_ hated -  
  
\- the way Hercules Mulligan chortled when snow exploded high over his shoulders when his back was turned. Hamilton stiffened at the impact's sting, feeling the powdery crystals wet his coat and slip in icy clumps between the collar of his jacket and the raw skin of his neck. Just barely, he kept a sharply worded insult from slipping free – but only just.  
  
Instead, he counted to ten - twice - and when he turned he was surprised to see that it was not the Irishman with his hands tellingly covered in the damning powder, but _Laurens . . ._ dear, _traitorous_ Laurens -  
  
Shell-shocked, standing defenseless and stunned by the betrayal, Hamilton caught Laurens' second salvo square in the face. So taken aback was he that the force of the blow had him losing his balance on the slippery walkway, and he fell back into the snowbank created from Mulligan's recent shoveling endeavors. He sputtered at the unexpected tilt to his world, spitting out the snow from his previously gaping mouth as his body tried to make sense of its pains beyond the haze of _wet_ and _cold_ he found himself in. Darkly, he summoned his most impressive glare, even as Laurens' mirthful expression melted into a look of honest concern as he easily darted over the icy pathway to where he had fallen. He did not slip once, and, somewhat mulishly, Hamilton wondered how the Carolinian could adapt so easily to the hellish season while _he_ -  
  
“Alexander?” Laurens' cheeks were satisfyingly flushed as Mulligan's mirth erupted into outright guffaws of laughter. He knelt down before him, his eyes bright with his concern as he all but gushed to say, “I am so sorry, my friend, I did not mean - ”  
  
But Hamilton's hands, braced in the snowbank on either side of him, only turned into fists. Feeling the satisfying thrill of vengeance, he grasped handfuls of snow and reached up to smear the cold powder in the other man's face. Laurens sputtered, startled, at the attack, but Hamilton only took advantage of his moment of distraction to pull him down into the snow and shove as much of the fluffy powder as he could onto his stunned form.  
  
“There,” Hamilton climbed to his feet and wiped the snow from his gloves in order to darkly declare. “The next time you decide to play the Brutus, make sure that Caesar is well and truly dead before assuming your way is clear.”  
  
His words would have been the perfect cap to the moment . . . had he not lost his balance on the icy walkway, and fallen . . . _again_. This time, however, he let Laurens help him up with a grudging smile, and did not push his hand away.  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
They awakened to see their army camp covered with an untouched blanket of snow, completely obscuring the previously barren landscape of the night before in a veil of virgin white.  
  
Spirits were mixed about the first snowfall of the season. On the one hand, wintertime was an enemy just as fearsome as the British with their ever dwindling rations and their men who were in need of the bare essentials demanded to survive the cold season in lodgings such as theirs. Coats and gloves and thick woolen socks - and, for an alarming portion of their army, even _boots_ \- were in sparse supply, and there were many men who still went in want of blankets and no bedding but for pine boughs at night. The slow erection of crude log cabins was slow as a result of their having to fell the timber in the chill of late December, and many men still weathered the cold in useless canvas tents; Congress had seen no reason to send pack horses and provisions to aid the army that had seemingly not aided _them_ that warring season, and, as a result, it sometimes seemed that the camp surgeons saw to more cases of frostbite and hypothermia than they did to battlefield wounds. Commissions would be up with the new year, and many men took their leave even earlier than that - taking with them provisions and belongings that the army could ill afford to spare. Morale was ever a low and waning thing with the dropping temperatures as the men prepared to spend yet another year away from their families, and Hamilton did not much see their wintering at Valley Forge to improve their spirits as a whole.  
  
And yet, there were a few . . . a precious few who peaked out of their tents and hesitantly took what joy they could in the beginning of the winter season. There was more than one man to be found plotting ambushes with snowballs upon his comrades, and a few had even fashioned sleds to take to the hills for sport. Such was a pastime Hamilton had never understood, and would _never_ -  
  
\- unfortunately, his being lost in his own mind as he walked the newly cleared pathway to the general's tent marked him as one of the first unfortunate victims of the season as he felt a ball of snow strike him in the middle of his chest. The shock of the blow stole his breath, and he all but growled to brush the clumps of cold crystals from his uniform, already well and truly _done_ with the cold - even though the winter had hardly began. Outside of Washington's tent, Laurens and Lafayette were standing with shovels in hand - they had lost a round of cards the night before against Tilghman and McHenry to win _that_ dubious honor - and he glared at the cackling Frenchman in particular – assuming that he had fired the blow for the way the snow tellingly frosted his leather gloves.  
  
“Really?” Hamilton huffed in irritation as he continued to wipe at his uniform, even when the snow was mostly gone. “Was that _truly_ necessary?”  
  
“What can I say? You need to smile more, _mes ami_ ,” Lafayette did not even attempt to defend himself, unconcerned by the vitriol in his voice as he was.  
  
“ - and think less,” Laurens agreed. As ever, the southerner looked ridiculously comfortable with the winter season; somehow, the cold only served to handsomely flush his cheeks and brighten his eyes with zest. Zest . . . and a _challenge_ , Hamilton noticed, so much so that he found something small and defiant light inside of him, urging him to action.  
  
With his mouth pressed in a thin line, he locked eyes with his friend and did not blink to lean down and pack the snow at his feet into a ball. Slowly, methodically, Hamilton straightened: _a warning_ , but Laurens still did not move. Instead, he only held up his hands and welcomed his attempt. Laurens smirked: _a call to arms._  
  
And Hamilton accepted. After a lazy salute, he took his aim with all of the careful marksmanship of a seasoned artillery captain and _threw_ -  
  
\- only for Laurens to duck aside at the last possible moment, and the salvo instead struck the man just exiting the tent square in the face. With horror, Hamilton instantly realized _who_ -  
  
“ _Your Excellency!”_ he exclaimed, torn between rushing forward to help his blindsided general and taking a step back – _far back_. He settled for staying still, shocked to motionlessness, in his place.  
  
Through the haze of blood suddenly thundering in his ears, he noticed Laurens' eyes go comically wide as he realized just who had taken the blow in his place. Lafayette did not have the restraint of his comrades: he could not handle the strain of his mirth, and he all but doubled over with his laughter, drawing a glare from Washington as their commander-in-chief reached up to brush the snow from his face and tricorne with as much poise and dignity as he could muster.  
  
At last, Hamilton summoned his words to say, “Sir, I beg your pardon! I did not mean to throw – well, I did not intend to hit _you_ , at least. You see, it was supposed to be _John_ , because he hit me first, but he - ”  
  
In answer, Washington only held up a hand, effectively silencing him from his rambling with but a gesture. Lafayette was near to tears with his laughter, Hamilton noticed, while Laurens appeared to be frozen in his spot, with all of his customary valor deserting him as he stared as a deer trapped before a hunter's bow. He would receive no aid from that quarter, Hamilton knew.  
  
“I, uh,” Hamilton swallowed around the cold stone lodged in his throat to say, “have something - ” _anything,_ “ - that immediately requires my attention. Um, _that way_. On the other side of camp.” He then did the only sensible thing there was to do: he turned and retreated.  
  
He made it one step . . . two . . . and then three before he felt the familiar, violent sensation of a snowball striking him between his shoulder-blades. Shocked, he turned to glare at Laurens in stupefied outrage, stunned that he would _dare_ -  
  
\- but his friend too was gaping in stunned disbelief, and Laurens only shook his head and raised a single finger to point at the general . . . the _general_ , who was brushing snow from his gloves in a pleased, self-satisfied manner. Had Washington truly just? . . . but no . . . _no._ Hamilton could not process the clues before him into fact; his brain balked at the insurmountable challenge of such a task. Lafayette, meanwhile, looked dangerously near to choking on his need for air. _Good,_ Hamilton sullenly approved.  
  
“Now,” Washington remarked pleasantly, striding past him and clearly expecting his aides to fall into line, “we have business to attend to, gentlemen.”  
  
  
  
.  
.  
  
Snow spiraled in fat and lazy flakes against the dreary silver-grey sky.  
  
Hamilton had, of course, been quite content watching the falling snow from the Campfield parlor, but Eliza had been delighted by the advent of the dancing snowflakes, and had quickly tugged on his hand, bidding that they turn through the gardens whilst the snow was falling. Hamilton could personally think of a dozen ways he would rather spend their time together, but then Eliza had smiled and her cheeks turned pink as her eyes sparkled with hope, and he found -  
  
. . . he was fast becoming unable to deny her anything that was in his power to give. And so, not even twenty minutes later, they were bundled up against the cold and walking arm in arm through the gardens as the snow fell and the winter frosted every branch and hedge with a delicate, serene layer of glittering white. There was a quiet hush to the world while the snow fell, interrupted only by the crunching of their boots and their breath misting on the air as specters blinking on the breeze.  
  
They started out walking arm in arm, with Angelica following further back – a chaperone in the loosest of terms, Hamilton knew – but his attention was taken from focusing on just how small her hands were, even through the thick material of her gloves and his coat sleeve, when Eliza spun away from him to try and catch snowflakes on the tip of her tongue. There was something innocent and artless in her movements - enchanting, even - and he found himself staring as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to the sky, for a moment quite unable to look away.  
  
“I cannot imagine a world where it does not snow,” Eliza happily sighed. She held her hands out, and the snowflakes danced about her palms without ever quite settling.  
  
“I can,” Hamilton returned darkly, speaking before he could politely swallow his words away. Even after six years in America, he cared but little for the cold season, and he did not think that he would ever prefer the dreary skies and icy weather to the thick, sultry embrace of the summer's heat. Even more so, he could still close his eyes and remember swaying palm fronds and the gentle undulation of the turquoise ocean over the glittering white sands, where all was warm and smelled sweetly of coconut and sugarcane, and -  
  
“That sounds like paradise,” Eliza remarked, and he only then realized that he had uttered his words aloud. He felt his cheeks flush, for he rarely spoke of his years in the Caribbean to anyone - not even to Laurens but in whispers.  
  
“In some ways,” he hedged, content to leave it at that. For, just as the gentle snowfall could rage as blizzard winds, the veneer of the islands' beauty was only that: a mask, and underneath its gild there was only rot and decay and the lowermost dregs of humankind to be found. It was a world he'd not wish on Eliza with her bright eyes and simple smiles - even now seeing only beauty in the barren, slumbering landscape as he frowned and longed for the springtime anew.  
  
“Maybe . . . someday, I could see a bit of your world?” Eliza hesitantly offered. Her head was tilted, and the dark, brandy shade of her eyes held a light where the sun did not shine that day.  
  
“Perhaps,” Hamilton shrugged to say. “Maybe.”  
  
But Eliza was canny enough to espy a trying subject, and she instead returned to his side to smile gently up at him. “I love the winter,” she returned his confession with one of her own. Her voice a soft sound to match the hushed world around them. “Upstate in New York, it snows even more than this. Some days there was so much snow that it was impossible move from the house, and we'd spend the entire day cocooned together within while the world turned white outside. Those are some of my favourite childhood memories, and I cherish them.”  
  
Gently, she reached up to wipe the clinging crystals from the lapels of his uniform as she spoke, and her hands next moved to the shoulders of his coat. This close, he could see snowflakes melting on the long lashes of her eyes, and her cheeks were flushed a becoming shade of pink – from more than just the cold, Hamilton liked to think as she took in a breath, and held it.  
  
“Your childhood memories sound kind, my lady,” he found his words to acknowledge her offering for what it was. He reached up to trap her mittened hands within his own, and he felt her fingers flex about his before stilling.  
  
“I have been blessed,” she whispered. “Yet mine should not be a singular such blessing. If I could, for you . . . ”  
  
But she bit her lip, and he watched her blush darken as she dared to whisper aloud what had been only a thought between them before, an hesitantly formed idea, as wistful as the thought of summer during the snowfall . . . Touched, he nonetheless understood the small, delicately offered gift she was presenting to him. This close, she was a warmth warding off the winter chill, and he found himself as one of the slumbering trees overhead, shifting his roots in awareness and drawn towards her promise of spring.  
  
Her eyes only broke gaze with his own to flicker down to his mouth, and he watched where she drew in a breath. Her eyes were wide, perhaps innocently so, but still dark and welcoming all at once, and he was just about to dip down and drink of the temptation his charmer had long been offering, when -  
  
\- a rather perfectly aimed snowball struck the side of his head with impressive force, knocking his tricorne askew and splattering over his face.  
  
“Angelica!” Eliza spun away from him to chide her sister in a voice that was more delight than vexation – though Hamilton was pleased to see her mouth thin in frustration for a fraction of a moment: she had wanted to kiss him as badly as he wanted to kiss her.  
  
He had no need to worry for retaliation, however, for Eliza was quick to scoop up the snow at her feet and turn on her sister in vengeance for their stolen moment. Angelica laughed to return the salvo, and Hamilton found himself unable to venture and choose sides before Angelica at last held up her hands in exaggerated surrender, promising to back down.  
  
When Eliza returned to him, her eyes were glittering from her sport and her breath was fast and light in her lungs. “You are still covered,” she lamented on his behalf, reaching up to brush the melting crystals of snow away from his face. He felt her delicate fingers trace the bridge of his nose before moving to sweep over his cheeks, as gentle as the dancing snowfall around them, and it was only when her thumb brushed his mouth that he watched her flush in realization of how forward she was being. She collected herself, and tucked a wayward strand of his now damp hair behind his ear before artfully stepping away.  
  
“We can turn around, if you wish?” she offered, glancing up from where she had ducked her reddening face away. “If you were not cold before, you must certainly have a chill now.”  
  
Mindful of Angelica's eyes on them both - and admittedly wary of taking another snowball to the face - Hamilton reached down to take Eliza's hand in his own. Gently, he squeezed her fingers and brushed a kiss to the back of her mitten. “But I am not cold – not any more,” he assured her, and found that he spoke his words true.


	5. "with a kiss" | Hamilton & Ensemble

On his twelfth birthday, his mother saved enough money to buy him a toy soldier from the shop beneath the small room they rented on Company Street.  
  
The toy was grand and opulent next to his leather ball, the bird-whistle his father had long ago given him, and the three carved boats his brother had made for him as part of his apprenticeship: a veritable treasure to his young eyes, with its proud red coat and its smart, marching limbs. Yet, even more so than his present, Hamilton remembered his mother pressing her mouth to his cheek as she knelt down to embrace him, fondly recalling the day heaven had seen fit to give them to one another. No matter the passing of time, he could ever call to mind the ocean-salt and tropical-breeze scent of her hair, just as he could remember the dark rum colour of her eyes and the way she would smile just too widely to hide the sad, thin line her mouth often made. She had been something indomitable to his child's eyes: an ocean tide, restless and constant, as she promised, _“This year will be better, my Alexander. Just you wait and see.”_ Her voice sounded low in his ears, as if daring the heavens to refute her words and turn them false. It was that moment, that memory, he cherished, rather than recalling -  
  
(Little more than a month later, she held him close with what strength she had left, her fever-wracked body too weary to even tremble as he clutched his little toy solider between them as if it were a talisman against evil. When the night was just turning towards dawn, she pressed her lips to his brow one last time, and he felt her breath whisper . . . in and out . . . soft against his skin until it was no more.)  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The first time Lafayette greeted him with a kiss to his right cheek, and then his left, Hamilton had grinned before returning the gesture with thoughtless ease. For, more so than showing good-natured humor, he understood the priceless value of friendship (the heart's essential need for companionship of the soul), and he ever took any and every chance he had to show his affection to those his own heart deemed as essential to his being – whether in the shape of a hand on the shoulder, a brushing of arms as he passed, or kissing as the French did. No, he did not take the bonds he forged lightly; not in the slightest.  
  
Eventually, such _faire la bise_ became something of a running joke between them – for Mulligan tried to pull away each and every time Lafayette molested him so (in his words, not theirs), and so of course both Hamilton and Laurens had to take every opportunity to rile the Irishman with their too greeting him with a kiss, no matter his protests. Their first time doing so had prompted Laurens to smile and fondly reminisce about his time spent abroad in Geneva, detailing both the customs and practices he missed from his years living across the sea. Hamilton ever listened to the stories he had to tell as one enthralled, amazed for the wide world he was ever finding far and away from the tiny island that had so long been his home.  
  
The following evening, when his classes at King's College were over for the day, he met up with his friends at the tavern next to Mulligan's shop, only to find his comrades already well into the ale without him. Laurens rose with bright eyes to follow after Lafayette in greeting him, kissing first his right cheek, and then his left, just as the Frenchman had. Yet, quite unlike the marquis, his mouth lingered against his skin, just long enough to be perceptible, prompting Hamilton to still for the single heartbeat the contact lasted, taking in the sultry sweet scent of his hair (like the sugarcane fields in the thick Caribbean heat) and the surprisingly soft texture of his lips (like the lazy sea-surf slipping over the sun-warmed sand), before -  
  
\- Laurens ducked away from him as a bird startled from its perch, and retreated back to his seat and his ale, leaving Hamilton feeling oddly bereft in his wake. He was still for a long moment, his skin still humming and his body suddenly restless as he stared after the other man. Yet, no matter how he tried to catch his eyes the rest of the evening, Laurens determinedly refused to look his way . . . and, that one stolen moment aside (though he was ever unsure what precisely was stolen), he did not greet him in such a familiar manner again.  
  
  


.  
  
.  
  
It took Hamilton the better part of a day to draft his letter to Congress, explaining the vulnerable position of Philadelphia after their defeat at Brandywine Creek in such words that were not wholly without confidence and hope for the future to come. At long last, he had a missive with which he was satisfied, and he trusted that Washington too would find it passingly palatable – with only so many tricks of his pen able to obscure the honest truth of the black days they had just barely escaped from with their army intact.  
  
Sighing, he made his way through the halls of the house that provided them refuge in Chester, his heart heavy to know that in the room the general would normally occupy, Lafayette recovered from nearly losing his leg to enemy fire, and was even now sleeping through the opiate haze of his laudanum treatment. Even more worryingly, he had left Laurens lost in his cups after a battle where he had once again done everything possible to find himself either wounded or dead - which was something Hamilton could not think of, not yet, (not ever, really), not when -  
  
Lost in his thoughts, Hamilton did not knock before opening the door to the study that Washington was using as both his office and private quarters whilst Lafayette recovered from his wounds. Blithely, he let himself in, and only looked up from once more rereading his letter when he heard the rustling of fabric and the surprised inhalation of a sharp breath (which should have tellingly alerted him right then and there). He blinked, but saw nothing more than Washington perched on the edge of his desk, putting him neatly of a matching height with the much shorter Mrs. Washington - who had arrived only earlier that day, Hamilton distantly recalled. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Martha took a step away from her husband, discreetly tugging on her bodice to straighten it and smoothing down the sides of her skirts. Befuddled for the dark look Washington shot him, an uncomfortable suspicion took root in his mind as he noticed the several wayward tendrils that were loose from Martha's neatly coiffed hair, and that, coupled with the telling flush to her cheeks and the _undone button_ on Washington's normally immaculate uniform -  
  
\- Hamilton blinked, suddenly awfully reminded of his childhood self's disbelief when his older brother first explained to him just what their parents did while alone after he had stumbled across them in a lover's embrace, and -  
  
“I, uh, I was just -” his brain supplied no quick words for his aid. Instead, he was horribly aware that he was staring - gaping, even – dumbly and without tact. (Though, thankfully, his instincts for self-preservation just barely kept him from doing anything as terribly foolish as _winking_.) “Well, um,” he tried again to summon his speech, “don't mind me, General – _Mrs. General_ – I'll just be on my way now. _Right now_ \- ”  
  
At long last, his brain gave his wayward tongue the signal for _silence._ Snapping his mouth shut with a clicking sound, he turned on his feet and promptly let himself out, all the while telling himself that he was not fleeing, but retreating in a dignified and orderly manner.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
His bay horse pawed the snow-covered road with an eager hoof as Hamilton fiddled with the straps of his stirrups for the tenth time in order to draw out their parting for a minute (hour, _aeon_ ) more, not nearly ready to leave after so soon finding his place with her.  
  
With that thought in mind, Hamilton darted a glance to where Eliza was standing to his right, clearly reining in her own thoughts to softly inquire, “How long shall your business in Amboy take you?”  
  
“As long as is needed,” he shrugged to say, hating the answer for how vague it was. Even more so, he found himself unsettled to admit that, in just a fortnight's time, she had become as essential as a kidney or a lung to his being, slipping between both marrow and bone to become something he could not live without. Now, to be torn from her so soon . . . he swallowed, and found that he held the winter as a weight within his chest.  
  
“Hopefully,” he tried to summon a confidence he did not feel, “the prisoner transfer will be a smooth thing, without much contest; I would not be parted from you longer than strictly necessary.”  
  
Her smile, in answer, was a ghosting thing across her face; hesitant and shadowed. It was one that completely matched his own, he knew.  
  
His stallion nickered again, clearly anxious to be off, and Hamilton could hear the dull thunder of approaching hoofbeats as his escort arrived from their camp just outside of Morristown proper. It was time, then.  
  
Even still he lingered, knowing what he wanted, but unsure of how to properly ask, (or if he even had the right to yearn) . . .  
  
. . . finally, with a sigh, he concluded his desires as foolish (improper for a lady such as his charmer was), and at last turned to mount his horse. Yet, just when he went to swing himself up into the saddle -  
  
\- he was quite taken aback by Eliza boldly reaching out to turn him back towards her. He frowned, a question on the tip of his tongue even as her hot mouth suddenly collided with his own, swallowing his befuddled query with an irrefutable answer. His surprise lasted for a too long, _wasted_ moment, before his mind finally freed him from his stupor and he squandered no further time in pulling her unresisting body closer to his own and sinking his hands into her hair as he'd long been yearning to do. Her mouth was artless and inexperienced as it moved against his own; gentle and curious, as soft as the whispering snowfall around them; but he found that to be an intoxication all its own as he guided her through her first voyage over passion's swells. Oddly humbled by the trust she put in him, he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, thrilling to taste her surprised moan when he touched his tongue to the seam of her lips and took his first sip of what she tilted her head to freely offer within.  
  
In answer, she instinctively pressed herself closer to him, finding every wanting space between their bodies and closing them off with a systematic, thorough determination. Distantly, he wished that he had time to feel more than the warm fabric of her cloak and the severe lines of her corset when he trailed a hand down her body to rest in the dip of her waist, only able to imagine how her skin jumped underneath the contact as she broke away to look at him with suddenly wide eyes – night dark and brandy warm and so, _so_ tempting -  
  
\- Eliza visibly took in a deep breath, and he found that she was not the only one who needed the moment to regain her composure, (sternly telling himself that staring at the way her blush stole down her neck to where her chest noticeably heaved as she found her breath was _not_ helping), so much so that -  
  
“When I return,” he whispered a vow into her ear; a solemn oath, “I will ask your father for your hand. That is . . . if you would have me?”  
  
She said nothing aloud in answer - not when his escort then arrived and there were too many eyes to frown at any further such intimacy between them. Instead, she rose up on the tips of her toes to brush her mouth once against his cheek, and, feeling his heart give a foreign twinge in his chest for the simple sweetness of the gesture, he took her answer as a promise.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
His wedding was something that, years ago, Hamilton would not have been able to imagine as his own: with fine crystal and delicate china serving course after course of rich food and flowing wine to men and women powdered and gilded to the highest of society's standards, each and every one celebrating with mirth and good cheer as Philip Schuyler gave away his beloved daughter in all of the pomp and circumstance that was his by right.  
  
Even more so than a day of nuptial bliss (the likes of which storybook tales ended with, so much so that he still couldn't quite believe it as _real_ _),_  the celebration was a refreshing reprieve before the days of fighting the war still promised in the months to come. And so, well knowing the value of living while there was still life to be lived, Hamilton took the moment to toast his comrades and enjoy the sweet feeling of walking arm and arm with his bride, (his temptress, charmer, angel _wife_ _)_ , until -  
  
\- he was not quite surprised when Angelica claimed him after his dance with Peggy, and drew him into a shadowed servant's corridor off to the side of the assembly room. Her eyes were bright from the wine, and her cheeks were flushed with the high spirits of the evening - no matter the sad sort of smile she tucked away when she thought the half-light to obscure his vision, with her expression just barely faltering from the joviality she had expressed the entire day thus far.  
  
“You, Alexander Hamilton, are now in possession of that which I cherish most in this world,” she backed him against a wall to declare without preamble. Hers was a simple truth, uttered without use of her firecracker words or whiplash mind, and he then knew the gravity of the burden he now bore (to have and to hold, to honor and adore) more so in that moment than when he had first sworn his vows to Eliza before the combined witness of God and men.  
  
“Take care of her; cherish her,” Angelica's words were a soft command, and he gazed to find her eyes strangely wet, shining with unshod tears. He felt her damp lashes brush against her skin when she leaned in to kiss first his right cheek, and then his left. Her mouth was butterfly gentle as she kissed his lips once, and only once, lingering for a stolen heartbeat before the sweet pressure of her mouth was gone. When he looked again, her eyes were dry, as if her tears had never been.  
  
“This I most solemnly task you with, my brother,” Angelica concluded wryly, with a more familiar twist then defining the syllables of her words.  
  
“This task I most solemnly accept, my sister,” Hamilton lifted her hand to his mouth to kiss in answer, and, with nothing more between them to say, they returned to the wedding party.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The Virginian autumn was all leaves falling in colours of flame to blanket the earth as a phoenix's nest, preparing the world for winter and the hope of the distant spring to come. The Yorktown air was crisp and cool, sweet and intoxicating as their lungs filled on its promise, so much so that more than one man found sleep a far off and impossible thing that night. The energy of the camp was all but palpable, knowing that, in mere hours, the _years_ they had spent fighting against impossible odds (moving mountains through the mustard-grain of their faith) would be over, and they could each return to their homes as free and liberated men, as independent _Americans_.  
  
(And, for him: home to _Eliza . . ._ home to _his_ _child . . ._ home to _their home_ as it now was to build.)  
  
With that thought humming through his mind, Hamilton was hardly exempt from sleeplessness that night. Though the hour was late, he stayed awake by lantern-light, pouring over the battle-plans they would use upon the dawn, when he would lead his men (his men, _his_ ), and, hopefully -  
  
Across from him, hunched over the maps much as he was, Laurens thoughtfully frowned to consider the placement of their troops. Hamilton could imagine no more fitting commander to serve underneath him, and he had been delighted when his friend had returned from overseas in time to see the last, triumphant push of their army against the British. Even more so than the heady promise of liberty, Hamilton found his heart quite content in the presence of the other man – with letters having long since proven an ill substitute to succor his spirit during their many months apart. Thus far, they had not discussed much beyond matters of military importance, or an anecdote or two from Laurens' time in France and Denmark procuring aid and funds for their fledgling nation, and Hamilton had hesitated to say (more than once, though he knew quite not why) just what was foremost on his mind, so much so that:  
  
“Eliza is pregnant . . . I shall be a father long before the spring is here,” he finally found the words tumbling from his mouth like water rushing over a cascade, falling to disturb the calm quiet of a forest pool below. Hamilton watched, his eyes sharp as Laurens drew in a breath, and held it. His fingers flexed over the quill in his hand before he exhaled.  
  
“I am happy for you, my friend,” Laurens finally summoned a smile to say. Though his words were warm, there was something guarded about his voice, something that had been there for much too long – twisting at his heart with a foreign pang, much as it ever did, so much so that Hamilton then found it hard to swallow around the weight suddenly constraining his lungs. “There is no greater joy in life to be found than in fatherhood, this I know for certain.”  
  
Fatherhood, but not in matrimony, Hamilton nonetheless heard what he did not say with a sigh, hating, as ever, the onerous state of shackled husband and dutiful son Laurens would have to return to at the war's end. The pang in his heart grew to twisting, and he felt the hollow of his chest fill with something he could not find the words to define . . . indeed, he was quite certain that it had no name.  
  
They said no more about his wife's expecting state, and instead returned to the more pressing matters of the last battle of the war and its fighting. Some time that night, Hamilton did indeed manage to nod off in a restless slumber, leaving Laurens awake where he fiddled with carving a bit of wood on the other side of the tent as he often did when he had too much nervous energy to spare.  
  
When Hamilton drowsily drifted to awareness to feel soft fingertips trace his cheek, just before a dry mouth fleetingly pressed against his brow, for all the world, the affection felt as a farewell. He thought to have dreamed the moment entirely until he awakened with the dawn to find that someone had cleared the sheets of parchment away from his sleeping pallet, and he had been covered with a blanket where he had not bothered to do so himself. When his eyes focused, he instantly spied a small line of delicately carved toy soldiers waiting for him on the outspread maps, just the right size and fit for a child's hand . . . and Laurens nowhere to be seen.  



	6. "not words, but meaning" | Hamilton & Mulligan & Lafayette & Laurens

The Mulligan household was a bustling, warm place to be at the turn of the winter season.  
  
For the most part, Alexander Hamilton sat back and watched from afar as Cato and Elizabeth Mulligan busied themselves with preparing a holiday meal for their friends and family. While more and more Patriots within the colonies were not observing Christmas due to the perceived English influences of such a custom (and the Mulligans themselves had been denied an invitation to dine with Elizabeth's British, naval family due to the Irish-Catholic, merchant connections she had so blithely entangled herself in with her marriage), that did not mean that they could not sit down on one of the last days in December and have a warm meal to celebrate the friendships they had forged and looked forward to sustaining throughout the year to come.  
  
Hamilton himself did not quite care what name was put to their celebrating. Back on St. Croix, he had hardly been able to experience holiday luxuries growing up, and the Hamilton family was rarely in high spirits with the winter solstice, even when they were all together; just as he could not quite call himself religious enough to identify with the spiritual aspects of the holiday as perhaps Laurens and Lafayette did. They both, with no family in New York to speak of, were welcomed to dine with open arms; and, along with Hercules' brother Hugh and his family, they passed their evening together in warmth and good cheer. The small house was filled fit to bursting, without a single decoration hung or gift exchanged, but that night would continue to remain one of his most treasured holiday memories throughout the years to come.  
  
When the following afternoon arrived, Hamilton shooed Elizabeth away from the kitchen when she went to prepare supper for her family again, and he denied Cato's help with a firm, “You too have earned this,” that he would allow no argument to turn aside. The servant, while a slave in both name and deed, was a dear, honored part of the Mulligan household - yet, even so, Hamilton felt his heart twist to see the moment's look of surprise and flustered gratitude that flashed upon the other man's face before he carefully tucked his expression away, thinking that soon, _soon_ -  
  
. . . but the year to come would allow him time enough to reflect on the injustices plaguing their world, and seek to find ways for recompense. Until then -  
  
He busied himself with preparing a simple meal when compared to their feast from the night before, remembering his mother humming in the kitchen and doing much the same for her family during the holiday season. While the waters surrounding New York were somewhat lacking in the fare that had made this particular stew in the Caribbean, Hamilton was able to make due with the bluefish and horseshoe crab the local markets had to offer, along with the gift of cocoanut oil Elizabeth had been delighted to find for him in order to create what was, for him, the taste of a memory, and share it with his friends for a memory made anew.  
  
His gift was met graciously, and he had more than one compliment (from Elizabeth) and threats to be forced to cook more often (from Hercules). Hamilton merely looked down, and smiled a smile that was more wistful than bittersweet to share, “This was something my mother made on special occasions, and no matter how long she's been gone, it's a craving that still strikes me when I least expect it.”  
  
After a long moment, he looked up to see the eyes carefully considering him: his words were understood for the offering they were, he understood, and his trust was cherished.  
  
“My first memories are those of hunger,” Mulligan at last answered his offering with one of his own. In his words Hamilton heard a familiar, halting hesitation to share a memory that was embedded so deeply in one's bones that it seemingly defined their very being; in answer, he inclined his ear to listen.  
  
“I was born during the Year of Slaughter,” it took Mulligan a long moment to continue, “a time of famine so great that my parents made the journey to America rather than see my brother and I succumb to starvation before we had the chance to truly live. Here in America a man could receive higher education, buy property, and thus seek his fortune in life: all things forbidden by our British overlords in Ireland. And so I have done as my parents fought to make possible for me: I graduated from King's College, I now own my own shop, and I have married such as would never have been possible for me across the sea.” For that, his eyes softened as he gazed at his wife, and she too held his eyes without blinking, so much so that Hamilton could not look away from the tide's pull that bound them, each one to the other.  
  
“Yet, even still,” Mulligan cleared his throat to conclude, “I remember the taste of potatoes, and the soup my mother would make from them, to this very day – all of these years later. But, perhaps that is the beautiful thing about America, no? We are a country made up of immigrants, and you will find many a story like mine - like yours, even . . . though, perhaps, not always to such a fantastic degree.” This he showed his teeth to wryly add. “In the years to come, I do believe that foundation is what will make us great.”  
  
Such sentiments so perfectly expressed, Hamilton could not help but drink to. He held up his glass of wine as if Mulligan had made a toast, and agreed with a hearty, “Hear, hear,” for a moment feeling as if everything his mind could reach for and imagine was indeed possible in the year to come.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.

  
There was not a prouder father to be found in the whole of America than one Gilbert du Mortier, Marquis de Lafayette, and he did not for a moment allow his friends to forget it.  
  
The Frenchman had just returned from a successful journey to his homeland, where he had, in addition to procuring funds and military aid for the second home of his heart, apparently made the most of his reunion with his wife. He had extended his time in France long enough to celebrate the birth of his son - a bright eyed, pink faced infant from the portraits Lafayette had commissioned to share with his comrades - whom he and Adrienne had decided to name -  
  
“George?” Hamilton repeated dumbly, still unable to comprehend his friend's decision. “You named your son _George Washington?”_  
  
“Georges,” Lafayette tipped his nose into the air to correct with a faux haughtiness. “My son's name is _Georges_ _Washington Louis Gilbert du Mortier de la Fayette_ – technically, in full.”  
  
“Adding an 's' to the name for French flair does not change the fact that you named your son and heir after our most esteemed taskmaster and general,” Hamilton sniffed to say. He frowned, and crossed his arms before petulantly remarking, “Although, really, I have to argue that _Alexander_ would have been a more noble name for the son of a marquis than _George_. Think about it: the name is noble, classic, inherently _heroic_ \- ”  
  
“ - or _John_ ,” Laurens chimed in from where he was taking his turn staring at the portrait. “There is no better name than that: simple, strong, _Biblical_ \- ”  
  
“ - bland, uninspiring, _common_ ,” Hamilton interrupted before his eyes widened as his brain caught up with his mouth. “That is, unless worn by _you_ , my dear Laurens. _Of course_ , I meant to say.”  
  
Laurens merely raised a brow, unimpressed by the stuttering compliment given to cover his hasty retreat. Hamilton had the good grace to flush and look away from his glower as he reached out to take his turn with the portrait again.  
  
In reply, Lafayette only sighed. “If only I had sons enough to name after all of my friends,” he tried to pacify the feathers he had unwittingly ruffled. “Then God would know me as the happiest of men, it's true.”  
  
“But still – Georges?” Hamilton was baffled to repeat. _“Georges?”_  
  
No matter the lighthearted teasing and levity of the moment, Hamilton watched where his words sparked a serious response from his friend. Lafayette pressed his mouth into a thin line; his eyes, though bright, narrowed with an edge born by the court of Versailles and honed by the rigors of the battlefield. Instinctively, Hamilton frowned against it.  
  
“I honored a man who deserves to be honored; a man who has no sons of his own to carry on his name, but who has at least one son of the heart in _me,”_ rather than continue with a playful rejoinder, Lafayette's voice dropped from a tone of levity to state his defense outright. Hamilton stared at him in answer, bemused for how easily his friend wore his heart on his sleeve and boasted of its beat so proudly to any who would listen. “And, what's more than that,” Lafayette added, his voice recovering a more cheerful tone, “ _he_ was pleased by my decision, which is all that matters. At least, he did not say so outright, but I am nonetheless certain of his joy.”  
  
Hamilton, who had seen the way Washington had not been able to speak for a full five minutes after being greeted with Lafayette's news - his throat working and his face flickering as he tried to keep a professionally bland mask in front of his family of aides - merely nodded as he stared down at the portrait once more. On that count, he could not disagree with the Frenchman, and yet . . .  
  
“If my son was born a daughter, I intended to name her Virginia,” after a minute's contemplative silence, Lafayette clearly could not keep himself from adding with a sly smile. “In fact, I do still quite favor that name.”  
  
At that, Hamilton lost it: he rolled his eyes heavenwards, and threw up his hands in defeat. “Dear Lord, but may God strike you infertile before you saddle all _thirteen colonies_ on your offspring - “  
  
“ - indeed, think of your poor wife,” Laurens added helpfully, scrunching up his face to say, “Scolding a little Mademoiselle _New Hampshire_ for her inattention to her needlework - ”  
  
“ - especially as your son _still_ looks like an _Alexander_ , and has been robbed of his true name by your bleeding heart!”  
  
“I cannot agree with you: he clearly resembles a John to me,” Laurens again countered his friend. “Look at that chin – that is a _John's_ chin if there ever was one.”  
  
“And an _Alexander's_ nose, _clearly_ \- ”  
  
“ - oh, don't wish _that_ on the boy - ”  
  
“ - excuse me, but what did you say?” Hamilton blinked at Laurens, who looked decidedly unrepentant for his slip of tongue.  
  
“You called _my_ name common and uninspiring,” Laurens retorted. “Next time, be careful how you insult your friends – for you may not like to hear what they have to say in return.”  
  
“That's because John _is_ a common and uninspiring name when born by lesser men!” Alexander returned. “There's no need to bring our _noses_ into this.”  
  
So absorbed in their debate, neither Hamilton nor Laurens attempted to stop Lafayette when the marquis clearly tired of their bickering, and - seeing the rotund General Knox chatting with General Greene the next row of tents over - took his son's portrait to brag to a more appreciative audience.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
In the weeks following the official end of the war, Hamilton was not blind to the pressures heaped upon the Mulligan family as New York City was reclaimed inch by painful inch and made their own once more.  
  
With his aid to the Revolution done in secret; his drawing closer to both Elizabeth's family and his brother's connections as a British banker in order to secure his intelligence the only thing visible to outside eyes, Hercules Mulligan was not at all safe from the backlash of patriotic fever gripping the city in the wake of their victory. Hamilton, who had not first understood the full magnitude of his friends' predicament until visiting to find Cato and Elizabeth cleaning up shattered glass from the inside of the shop while Hercules spoke to a builder about having the window panes refitted, was sober and frowning as he stared at the wrecked state of the once tidy racks and smartly arranged boxes within. As he looked around, fingering torn panels of fabric and toeing overturned boxes of buttons and spools of ribbon with his boot, he felt a pang sink deep within his chest to see how his friend's constantly placing the lives of both he and his family in mortal danger was repaid by the nation who had no idea of his sacrifice.  
  
. . . a nation who had no idea _yet,_ Hamilton finally decided . . . for that was a state of affairs that he was most determined to address, with irrevocable finality.  
  
Which was perhaps why his telling Hercules and Elizabeth that he would be _plus one_ for breakfast the following morning was met with no small amount of surprise when he turned up with George Washington in tow. The general had understood every unspoken pain his agent was suffering without Hamilton needing to explain, and had readily played up his part in acknowledging their spy to the rest of the world in unquestionable style: riding by his side through the city streets on his spirited white warhorse in full dress uniform, complete with a bright purple sash and gleaming golden saber strapped to his side, no matter that there was no need for such a militant dress in a city they had reclaimed under a flag of peace. Well aware of the eyes following them, they turned inside of the Mulligan's shop and greeted Hercules and Elizabeth where all on the street could see through the still empty window panes.  
  
More than for show, Hamilton did not keeping himself from embracing Hercules outright and fondly kissing Elizabeth's cheek. Cato too he embraced, not drawing away until the flustered man hesitantly patted him on the back to end the contact. Following him, Washington bowed to both Elizabeth and (to Hamilton's pleased surprise) Cato, before warmly shaking Hercules' hand - holding the contact as he thanked him for his service and the many pains he had taken on behalf of their fledgling nation. When Hamilton saw little William peak out from behind the counter – the three year old now walking and chattering in the way of children just starting to master their expression of thought - he picked the boy up and fondly spun him about, already more than comfortable in the role of 'favourite uncle' he was determined to procure in the child's heart.  
  
Washington too was quite taken by the child, and many were the times that morning when he was distracted from the conversation between the adults when allowing the boy to wear his tricorne hat and ask his childish questions about the vague concepts of war and soldiering that were just starting to develop in his mind.  
  
That morning's breakfast was only a first step in a broader strategy, Hamilton was further determined to see. Well aware of the curious looks still darting into the shop from the street beyond, he raised his voice to be clear to any who were attempting to overhear and said, “We do not have plans for dinner tomorrow, now that I think of it. In eight years, I have not dined as well as I once did at your table, and if I may be as bold as to presume -”  
  
“ - of course,” Mulligan was quick to interrupt with an official invitation. “It would be our honor to host you for dinner, Lieutenant Colonel – _General_.”  
  
“Alexander,” Hamilton shook his head to say. “Such titles have no place between us, my friend – you well know that. And, in the meantime . . .” He cast a careful eye over the fabrics and various odds and ends that had been tidied up and were once more on display to choose from, thoughtfully considering his options before he said, “Our uniforms will not be needed for much longer in the days to come. In fact, I am thinking that I am in want of a new wardrobe entirely – and I must imagine that the General here is in much the same state of need as I.”  
  
Washington, well aware of the eyes upon them, only raised a brow to slowly nod and agree, “You are not the only officer who shall be wanting a more civilian dress now that the war is over, it is true. It would be their honor, just as it is mine, to make use of your services if you are so available?”  
  
“And,” Hamilton shrugged to point out, well aware that Hercules was gaping as he struggled to make sense of the suddenly overwhelming commissions facing him, “little Georges is turning five soon. Perhaps a gift for him would be smart to procure as well?”  
  
Washington did not need to be told twice to spoil his namesake as if he were his grandfather in truth, and the barest of smiles tugged on the corners of his mouth as he said, “Yes, indeed – a most excellent idea, Hamilton, I thank you. Perhaps a pair of leather gloves for his first lessons with his pony? . . . Or a hat," he said, spying a model that was most suspiciously like his own. " . . . or both,” Washington decided as he peered through Mulligan's selection, clearly pleased as he was by the quality of what the Irishman had to offer.  
  
“And I wish for a bonnet for my son - and maybe a new hat for Eliza,” Hamilton thoughtfully held his chin to consider, seeing a pretty thing with lace and feathers that would not be too gaudy for his wife to match to her finer gowns.  
  
“And a fan for Martha,” Washington smartly nodded his head when the display caught his eye. “To start with.”  
  
“ . . . perhaps I should begin writing all this down?” Elizabeth slowly remarked, her eyes still wide as she glanced from the Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army, quite happily occupied as he compiled his order, to the ever growing crowd outside of her husband's shop.  
  
“A splendid idea, Lizzie,” Hamilton approved, knocking shoulders with a still shell-shocked Mulligan to call him back to himself. “I do not think that we are nearly done here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hercules & Elizabeth Mulligan**: After doing some research, my love for these two in history has just skyrocketed. Hercules' origins were much as I related them in the text: he was born in Ireland during a decade of famine, in a time-period when the British were particularly cruel to their Irish subjects (which most certainly influenced his later patriotism, I can only imagine). When he was seven, his parents immigrated to America with the hopes of finding a better life in New York, which they most certainly did. His spying during the war took on a larger scale than I first realized between his working with his brother Hugh to make the most of his banking for the British in New York, and his using his wife's connections to the British navy, as she was the daughter of a prominent Loyalist and the niece of an Admiral. Mulligan was so good at keeping his cover that when Benedict Arnold tried to denounce him as a spy in 1780 he talked his way out of his predicament, just as he did earlier in 1776 when the British first reclaimed New York – his gift for talking BS rather perfectly matches up with Lin-Manuel Miranda's portrayal of him, that's for certain! But, after learning that his spying was a family affair, I now want all of the stories about their adventures, even more so than before. 
> 
> After the war, the Mulligans did receive threats of violence and were faced with vandalism for their perceived loyalty to the crown. Eventually, it took Washington and Hamilton dining with them and buying from their shop to help them regain their standing in the city. As that scene just tickled me to imagine, I had to write about it here. 
> 
> **Lafayette** : After the war, he named his next daughter _Virginie_. Of course. ;)


	7. "knock me down" | The Mulligan Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, these ficlets are now _officially_ longer than I wanted anything in this collection to be - in true Hamilton fashion. But something tells me that you guys don't mind. ;)

“There is a boy my firm is endeavoring to send to America.”  
  
The statement, given in a carefully matter of fact manner, had Hercules Mulligan looking up, knowing to listen all the more so whenever Hugh spoke in that particular tone of voice: bland and nondescript but for a note of _waiting_ , patiently foreseeing a straw thread's potential for glittering as gold in the right light. He stilled with his work, taking his needle in hand from where he had been holding it between his teeth to ask, “Is that so?”  
  
“From St. Croix,” Hugh hummed in the back of his mouth to elaborate. “He has talent, and the ambition to make his prospects a reality. We hope to capitalize on those ambitions; _I_ hope to capitalize on those ambitions in the time to come.”  
  
“You threw a penny of your own into the mix?” Hercules snorted to understand what his brother did not say. “God be good, but he must have struck you something fierce: your purse is more tightly closed than a nun's legs.”  
  
“Read this, and you'll understand.” Even with the perfunctory role of his eyes, Hugh was still his brother; no matter the silk necktie and gold buttoned waistcoat he now wore, he still had to hide his humor for his crass words as if they were coltish boys stealing apples from farmer O'Brien's orchard and spying as the women hiked up their skirts around their thighs to do their laundering in the clear freshwater springs.  
  
Hercules felt the corners of his mouth stretch as he put aside the waistline he had been letting out in order to take the proffered piece of parchment from his brother. He skimmed the heading, finding the logo of St. Croix's Royal Dutch-American Gazette, and read a letter from a reader detailing the storm that had just torn through the island – which Hercules remembered Hugh mentioning for the risk it had hazarded to his ships in the area with no small amount of concern. The letter was a passionate one, with lilting, twisting turns of phrase and verbose, lush sentences; the author clearly had an elegant pen and aureate diction, so much so that Hercules raised a brow and asked, somewhat dubiously, “These are the words of a boy?”  
  
“Only seventeen, would you believe it? A bastard and an orphan, clerking at one of our shops,” Hugh confirmed. “I am not the only one who advises keeping an eye on him in the years to come.”  
  
Hercules shook his head, not quite ready to share his brother's hopes just yet. The author who'd penned that letter was hungry, as wanting as a hurricane plucking at a churning sea, and such a yearning would not be quenched by the highs and lows of a mere merchant's life. He set his needle to work again, feeling a telling shiver pass up and down his spine to think that _no,_ such a hunger would not be satisfied until it gorged well and past the expectations of them all.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
For her genteel status as a woman, Elizabeth Mulligan was not treated as poorly as her husband and Cato when they were caught trying to flee York city as it burned. She was allowed to ride with the other _reclaimed_ women in an open wagon, with her hands unbound and her head uncovered. Even so, she was uncomfortably squeezed in her seat next to more than a dozen other shivering souls - some staring blankly ahead, and some muttering soothing words to their daughters whilst knowing not what became of their fathers and husbands and brothers and sons. Only a few, like her, had to look down in order to hide the burning in their eyes – an impotent burning, knowing that one thoughtlessly uttered word, one misplaced _look_ would mean -  
  
- for Elizabeth would not dare to risk her husband in such a way. From him she had learned the value of holding in the anger licking at her bones until she could release it in a productive manner, and if she knew Hercules at all, she knew that he was spinning his tongue in order to convince his captors of the wisdom of his release. She would not allow herself to ruin any fine work he may have been doing by her own quick temper and useless wroth, not yet.  
  
As soon as she was allowed to return home – a home she had not thought to so soon return to after fleeing – she immediately arranged a meeting with her uncle Sir Charles Sanders. As she made her way to his newly reinhabited residence, a part of her dismayed to see just how easily he had reclaimed what he thought to be his rightful place and sense of belonging in New York once the rebels had been flushed out in the wake of their general's losses. She closed her eyes long and slow, remembering Alexander's guarded eyes slowly opening in friendship and belonging at her table; along with the Laurens boy and the dear marquis, and _hoped_ -  
  
 - but her uncle's voice cut into her unspoken prayers, and she blinked to call her mind back to order.  
  
“I understand the . . . sympathies of your husband's heart, Lizzie. But they are misguided sentiments, uselessly misplaced – as both I and your father have tried to convince you of many times before.” As she listened, Elizabeth had to keep her hands clenched in her lap and her eyes dutifully down-turned, counting from one to ten once, and then twice, in her head - for dutiful, blind submission had never been a suit in which she had much excelled. That, she thought with a clenching in her chest that grounded her, was something that Hercules had first adored about her. “I have to warn you, even if I can secure his release now, any further acts of questionable loyalty shall not be overlooked as they have been before. I will not be able to protect him – or you – in the future to come. Do you understand me, my dear?”  
  
She tilted her head up, seeing only the red, _red_ sea of fabric and golden cords highlighting his Admiral's uniform before she relaxed her jaw and loosened the frown of her mouth in order to meet his eyes.  
  
“I understand you perfectly, sir,” Elizabeth found it within herself to smile, hoping that she portrayed the gratitude of a woman who was ignorant to the workings of war and incapable of yearning for a _man's_ ideas of both freedom and equality. She must have succeeded, for a moment later, her uncle gave a soft smile and fondly reached out to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. She held herself perfectly still underneath the filial caress, not daring to breathe lest she breathed fire.  
  
“Good,” Charles approved, smiling affectionately down at her. “I will see what I can do to secure your husband's release. Be patient, Lizzie, and I will see to this – don't you fret.”  
  
She was saved from saying anything more when a flustered looking ensign appeared at the door, and required her uncle's presence for a Major reporting at the door. With a regretful shrug and a smile to say, “Duty calls,” in mock lament, he left her alone in his study . . . _alone_ for a moment's time in the office of a British Admiral . . .  
  
And Elizabeth, every limb in her body tightly held and her rage still boiling her bones in her blood, looked about, seeing the name _Howe_ scrawled across the heading of a letter her uncle had been answering before she interrupted to demand her meeting. Admiral Howe, she thought with a flicker of recognition . . . the brothers _Howe_ . . . her heart hammering with a sudden, awful, _perfect_ idea . . .  
  
Making a moment's decision, she snatched up a clean sheet of parchment, and started to copy the vague bits of information relevant to troop movements and tactical plans she could espy from the original document, a determined calm stealing over her as she thought that this way, _this way,_ she – _they_ – could still continue to fight . . . no matter the outcome of their cause in the days still to come.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The waters of the Hudson were as black glass, slipping over his oars as a ripple.  
  
The moon was a half-disk hanging in the sky above, casting a thin, dancing light over the waves as it peaked through its thin veil of gossamer clouds. The stars disappeared and then appeared again, flickering over the world below and tellingly whispering their lacework glow for any who cared to look out across the water and _see_. The truth making his breath a painful thing in his breast, Cato knew he would have preferred a moonless night in which to make his journey - even the daylight when he traveled freely between both sides of the river (for the British never thought to suspect a coloured spy, and many of the ranking officers were his master's trusting clients, at that) would have been preferable to this journey done in half-light. Yet time was then of the essence, and the letter he had firmly secured in the hidden pocket sewn over his heart had the ability to make or break the tide of the war as they knew it.  
  
 - for he had been there too, standing behind the counter, unseen and unnoticeable to their patron as the British officer laughed and ordered his commission of cold weather gear to be expedited that very night, saying, _“before another day, we will have the rebel general_ _in our hands_ _.”_ There had been the fire of zeal and the certainty of victory in his eyes, for the enemy somehow knew plans that should have been secret, and Washington would have to alter his course to rendezvous with his men upon the morrow immediately.  
  
But their commander-in-chief would not know of the danger hanging over his life unless Cato completed his mission in the bright night-light with both British and Patriot vessels scouring the waters for illegal traders and deserters . . . and, the unexpected but always fortunate find: _confidential correspondents_ , making their drops much as he was.  
  
Cato took in a deep breath, and held it, before slowly exhaling to see his breath mist on the air before his eyes. His hands tightened over the oars as he watched and listened for fellow watercraft on the river, for a moment feeling an old, familiar lurch in his chest, knowing: _he did not have to do this_. The Mulligans may have owned his freedom, but they did not have the right to order him to illegal acts of treason; he could turn them into the British and collect the award that awaited him for such a _patriotic_ deed. His doing so – the idea was a wistful, tantalizing one – could perhaps even earn him his freedom. He would not be the first slave to do so, he knew – all throughout the colonies Negros were earning their manumission through their service to the Crown, and he too could do the same. Or, he thought for an even briefer moment, he could make use of the maneuverability these drops offered him: he could take the cash-box from the shop and just keep _rowing_ until he made it to the frontier. Then he could make his own way, on his own terms, _his_ -  
  
\- but for how long? he wondered next. He did not favor the idea of constantly looking over his shoulder in the years to come – even if he could make it that far in the first place, that was. Neither did he welcome the idea of the services the British would demand of him in order for him to earn his _freedom_ – he would merely be trading in one yoke for another, as it were. And, what was more than that . . .  
  
Briefly, Cato remembered the eyes of the boarder the Mulligans had hosted before the Patriots lost New York to the British, he remembered his hungry words and his teeth showing as he claimed that the rights to freedom and equality should stretch to _all_ who called America their home - regardless of the colour of their skin. Alexander Hamilton's was not the only voice sounding that call, and, someday, perhaps someday _soon_ . . .  
  
. . . but that idea was still too great to manage, even in the furthermost corners of his mind, and Cato could not yet give word to such thoughts, even unspoken.  
  
And, what was more than that, he _did_ love the family he served. He loved them as if they were his own kin, even though there were times when he wished that he was able to earn that love and loyalty through the bonds of trust and friendship rather than the unnegotiable requirements of servitude. Which meant . . .  
  
. . . he could not betray them, Cato knew with a heavy feeling in his heart - just as he could not betray the country that was struggling to rise up as a wisp of smoke from a stubbornly burning ember. The potential life of that nation depended on him now - _him_ and the success of his venture - and it was his choice, _his_ , to see his mission completed and General Washington spared from harm.  
  
And so, Cato started to row again, knowing that _he_ decided his fate in this, and _he_ wished his fate to fall in line with the country that was _his_ country as much as it belonged to those who held the chains of his brethren. The idea that was _America_ may yet have been imperfect and flawed, but he yet believed in what it still could be – in everything it promised in the future to come – and for that belief he at last landed on the far shore and whispered onwards through the trees as the moon disappeared completely behind the clouds to hide his way.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
The second time her husband was arrested for suspected Patriot loyalties, Elizabeth Mulligan gasped to see the state he was returned to her in.  
  
His right eye was completely swollen shut, and his face was bruised and crusted with old blood - blood which also stained the collar of his now rank waistcoat and liberally crusted his vest and undershirt along with the weeks worth of grime and filth from his incarceration. His silk tie was gone, and some petty officer had taken the golden buttons from his jacket and the silver buckles from his shoes. Yet, even more than that, her heart twisted to see where his favourite knit cap was gone, leaving his ears cold and exposed to the bite of the chilly spring air - even though she suspected that his shivers were from far more than that.  
  
Where Hercules normally embodied his name in every possible way, he then carried his great form with a debilitated hunch, and his normally standing tall enough to seemingly block out the sun itself was made shadowed and small to her eyes. That, even more than his whispering of where he had badly torn the cuff of a dislocated shoulder and numbering his bruised and broken ribs, had Elizabeth closing her eyes as she silently prayed to the Lord above for strength. She had him lean on her as she helped him up the stairs, biting her lip to feel her normally indomitable husband heavily rest his weight on her shoulders, even as Cato took the brunt of his bulk from where he supported Hercules on his opposite side.  
  
“Please, bring me hot water and clean rags, as quickly as you can,” she turned to Cato as soon as Hercules was settled as comfortably as he could be on the stool next to the tin tub - only to find that the dear man had already anticipated her needs, and was already leaving the room behind to fetch what was needed.  
  
“And whiskey,” Hercules added on a weak voice, his words whistling from where he had lost more than one tooth, Elizabeth flinched to see.  
  
“No,” Elizabeth chided as she went about peeling his soiled clothes away from his body with a gentle, determined hand. “You have not eaten properly in weeks, and I do not think it is wise -”  
  
“ - _whiskey_ ,” was Hercules' repeated rasp, looking at Cato - not to her - she bristled to notice. “Please,” he had to look down to find his voice as she gingerly pulled the sleeve of his now threadbare waistcoat over his wounded shoulder. “I'm going to need it when that damned surgeon gets here and starts his work.”  
  
She felt her brow furrow, wanting to further protest - but Cato only shrugged to diplomatically amend, looking only at her, “Perhaps just a swallow or two, ma'am? And a bowl of broth with it?” For his latter words, Cato turned to impressively glare at his master, clearly daring him to counter his suggestion.  
  
Hercules waved a hand, and gave a long suffering sigh to try one last time, “I don't suppose you'll let me have the whiskey otherwise?”  
  
“No, sir,” Cato affirmed, clearly tucking a pained smile away so that he could hold on to his glower. Using her husband's moment of distraction, Hercules gave an oath under his breath when she got his vest off over the same ruined shoulder.  
  
“Fine then, be gone with you,” he finally grumbled his consent, his last word turning to a hiss as Elizabeth gave up on peeling the soiled shirt away from his torso in favor for using a pair of scissors to simply cut the fabric from his body. As she worked, it seemed that everywhere she looked, everywhere there was to see and touch, there was some harm to uncover or some wound to exacerbate. His captors had been very, _very_ thorough with their _questioning_ , she sickened to see, forcing her stomach to still at the sight - for she had to be strong for her husband now, strong for her husband and for -  
  
“They could not make anything stick,” Hercules finally gave a wheezing chuckle to say, his one good eye staring at her as she mapped out every boldly stated torment marring the broken canvas of his body with her gaze. “The Traitor himself was there, glowering to say that he _knew_ General Washington had spies in New York - but as the old fox never shared the names of his agents with none but the Tallmadge boy and our Hamilton, he had not a scrap of proof to go on. Eventually, they tired of my mouth, and they had no choice but to let me go when your uncle stepped in and demanded an end to their clearly pointless _investigation_.”  
  
Shaking her head in a dazed sort of surrealism for the twists and turns their lives had taken, Elizabeth reached out to cradle the side of his face. She wanted to brush her thumb over his cheekbone, but worried for putting pressure where pain would only follow. “Your mouth,” she at last sighed to say. “Something tells me that it earned you half of these marks as much as it at last secured your freedom.”  
  
“Ahhh, but I'll take a hundred such beatings if it but means that God will grant me the words to share the _priceless_ look on Benedict Arnold's face when I was at last allowed to walk free . . .” he began to laugh, but his laughter turned to a fit of coughing when his doing so clearly put pressure on his ruined ribs. She felt herself stiffen, instantly attuned to anything she could do to help. Feeling her heart twist in her chest, Elizabeth could not help but take in a deep breath, and hold it.  
  
“No, no, no - none of those looks now, my _Acushla_ – it is not good for our little lad if you worry so,” Hercules leaned forward to place a hand on the now defined curve of her stomach, which she had just recently abandoned her corsets in favor of freeing outright. When he was taken, the idea of their child had only been a whisper of a possibility, and she had not yet been certain . . . now, there was no uncertainty.  
  
“Lad?” she felt her breath bubble in her mouth to say. “And if our child is a daughter?” For she could not yet allow herself to imagine that the stress she had known for the last few months would rob them of this gift - _she could not._  
  
“Then you know I'll fight to come home to _her_ all the more so,” Hercules cracked a still bleeding smile to say.  
  
At his words, she could not help herself, Elizabeth leaned her head against his good shoulder and felt tears at long last slip free from her eyes. She wanted to cry, to sob her relief and her fear and her anger all into his skin at once, but there was still work to be done, and she could not yet -  
  
“Hey, hey there,” Hercules turned so that he could whisper into her hair, lifting his one working arm to wrap about her shoulders in an embrace that she had too long missed. “You know me? They may knock me down . . . “  
  
“ . . . but you'll only get back up again,” Elizabeth finished his sentence, a rueful sort of humor piercing through her grief. _Of course._

  
“We _all_ will,” Hercules muttered as he pressed his palm to the proof of their child through her dress for the first. She felt her own hand fall to cover his, and somewhat desperately her fingers clenched and held his hand to her, unwilling to yet let him go.  
  
“Now,” a long moment later, his voice hummed in her ear to say, “some saint is here with my whiskey. Dry your tears, Lizzie, and let me tell you what I leaned during my somewhat extended holiday . . .”

 

  
  
.  
  
.  
  
It was just like old times when they busied themselves outside of the shop to see a new sign hung beneath the proud declaration of _'Mulligan Tailors and Haberdashery'_. Balancing on one ladder while Hamilton braced himself on a second ladder, Hercules frowned to coordinate their movements to see a second sign  put into place– a maneuver which was proving to be rather tricky between the weight of the sign and their endeavoring to hang it straight in proportion to the first.  
  
And, of course, his friend's mouth was not helping matters in the slightest.  
  
“I want to let you know that the British could not manage to kill me the entire war through,” Hamilton chirped at him from the other side of the sign. “If I manage to fall and break my neck _now_ -”  
  
“ - you do so for a great and worthy cause,” Mulligan grunted to say, already tired of his complaints, “Now concentrate, man – and put your back into it!”  
  
“You know, when I thought that I would be willing to die for Washington, this is not _quite_ what I had in mind,” Hamilton nonetheless grumbled under his breath to say. “Honestly, this was not what I pictured when I sought to free your reputation from the mire -”  
  
“ - but it is a handsome sign, is it not? And it shall more than serve your initial purpose in coming here,” Mulligan finally smiled in triumph when they had the second plaque hung beneath the first, proudly declaring ' _Clothier to Genl. Washington'_ in letters of gold gilt upon a face of finely lacquered cherry wood. Yes, he thought, such would do so quite nicely.  
  
Until -  
  
“I think that it needs to be moved a little to the left,” Cato called from the ground below, prompting Mulligan to look down and glare at his former house-slave.  
  
“You give a man his papers of manumission and offer him honest work managing your shop, and he then thinks he _owns_ the bloody place,” Mulligan grumbled where only Hamilton could hear, prompting the other man to smile widely in reply - a bit too widely.  
  
“Well then,” he called down with no small amount of rancor colouring his voice, “ _you_ come up here and hang the damned thing. I'd like to see you do better.”  
  
“I think not,” Cato put his hands in the pockets of his new waistcoat (a rich blue wool piece, part of a complete wardrobe Hercules had surprised the other man with to accompany his freedom), to say. “I am not dressed for such labor - and I have a more pressing matter to attend to here on the ground, at that.”  
  
\- _pressing_ being where little William had claimed an oversized tricorne hat from the shop as his own, and had found a thin wooden rod he was using as a sword - quite happily ensnared in a case of hero-worship as he was after meeting General Washington several times over the last three weeks. Cato held a matching rod in hand, and was mock sparring with the child as the boy giggled and proudly gave his little war cries in return. Hamilton pouted down at William, and clearly muttered the word _traitor_ underneath his breath with an exaggerated role of his eyes.  
  
But, they did manage to move the sign a little to the left, and after Cato approved their placement they both made it safely to the ground without any injury. The ladders were then put away just in time to for Elizabeth to come out with mugs of ale to reward their exertions, which he gratefully took.  
  
More than satisfied, Hercules then stood outside of his shop, and put an arm around his wife's shoulders as he toasted them all – drinking to their reclaimed city, their liberated country, and their ever enduring bonds of friendship – unable to keep himself from smiling as he looked forward to the years to come all the more so than he had first allowed himself to dream before.  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Acushla** : An Irish endearment meaning _'pulse'_. Or so says the internet. ;)
> 
>  **Cato's Freedom** : I couldn't find any mention of his fate following the war, but seeing as how Hercules Mulligan later joined the New York Manumission Society, along with Alexander Hamilton, I have to imagine that he freed his slave rather than being so hypocritical. Or, that is what I like to think after how faithfully Cato served his country - his patriotism and service (along with those like the Mulligans) is something that is way too overlooked in the history of America, that's all I can conclude on the matter.


	8. "the ever-favorite object of my heart" | Hamilton & Jefferson & Washington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wanders back in* Soooo, has it really been this long? *looks at date again* Well, I suppose it has been . . .
> 
> For anyone still interested - or, for any new faces out there, hello! - I do have a few more of these to share, now that my muse is tentatively letting me write again. And, that said, I hope that you enjoy this latest offering. As always, I thank every last one of you for your support, you guys are truly the best!

Long years had passed since he'd last seen such a raw, unmitigated fury blaze from George Washington's eyes. _Not since losing Philadelphia_ _to the British_ _at Brandywine,_ Hamilton's mind distantly contemplated. _O_ _r learning of Benedict Arnold's treachery,_ _that awful day at West Point_ . . . He felt his own heart twist at the same memories, as if attempting to beat while pierced by a blade.  
  
_General_ , the urge was nearly overwhelming to rise to his feet and salute, instead of the cautious, “Good morning, Mr. President,” that fell from his mouth instead. Merely bowing his head in welcome was not nearly enough to assuage his soldier's instincts, no matter that more than a decade had passed since he resigned his sword for a pen, his uniform for a toga of office. He felt his shoulders square to answer his commander's rising ire; his spine straightened as if he wore tones of blue and gold, rather than a civilian's garb, once more. Restlessly, he tapped his fingers against the table, beating as if in time to the marching orders of a snare drum.  
  
Seated across from him, Thomas Jefferson's curt nod was the barest of polite greetings – little more than a boneless slinking of his upper body than any formal gesture of respect, at least, in Hamilton's rather frank opinion on the matter. Normally, such taunting insubordination would have had Washington raising a brow and silently bristling, but that morning the president hardly noticed the state secretary's irreverence. He was too focused on his own umbrage.  
  
Following their stilted pleasantries, Washington did not take a seat at the head of the table as was his wont. Instead, he remained standing with a militant discipline to the severity of his posture, as if his bones were folded steel and his flesh hewn stone. In a strange way, he looked taller to Hamilton's eyes; where the heavy mantle of leadership and the thankless onus of ruling had long since bowed his back with its burden, no such careworn fatigue defined Washington now. The deeply etched lines, carved from his last five years in office, had smoothed from his brow to reveal a younger man, one whom, Hamilton much suspected, clearly wished for a sword of command rather than the scepter of diplomacy he wielded instead. As if by instinct, a matching energy coursed through his own body, and his fingertips itched. All at once, his quill did not seem weighty enough to fill his palm.  
  
“Gentlemen,” Washington's already deep voice was then a thundering rumble of sound. “I trust that you have heard of the . . . developments with the marquis. He has been turned over to the Austrians – where Emperor Francis has decreed that he shall wait in prison until a _rightful_ French king can be restored to the throne, and Lafayette tried with the rest of the _traitors_ to the crown.”  
  
There was a letter tightly clenched - gripped, yet not crumbled out of tender respect for the words it contained within - in one of the president's large hands. There, Hamilton clearly espied Adrienne's elegant handwriting poured over the face of the paper - ever in English for her husband's adopted _p_ _è_ _re_ \- and could well imagine the pleas the letter contained therein. The marquise had written him, much the same, from her own place languishing under French arrest, where . . . for this his heart lurched, sickened to reflect . . . they had since learned that Adrienne had watched her sister and mother and elderly grandmother bow before the guillotine for the noble blood coursing blue in their veins. Though she'd kept her daughters from the blade by playing on their youth and her husband's American connections, Adrienne had not trusted that good regard to spread to Lafayette's son and heir, and she had smuggled Georges to safety, though she had no idea of his current health or wellbeing . . . just as she neither knew how long the boons that American favor - or righteous disfavor _-_ over her family's treatment at the hands of the good _citizens_ of the _Republic_ would save her own self from making the long walk to the National Razor, as so many had before her.  
  
Hamilton breathed out through his nose, fury lacing through his veins for the treatment endured by his loved ones, far across the ocean. Darkly, he was unable to understand how the French could despise one of the truest friends of liberty who'd ever drawn breath, based almost solely on the uncontrollable circumstances of his noble birth. For the _Marquis_ de Lafayette, who could trace his royal-studded lineage back to the _crusades_ . . . for him to call a penniless, Creole orphan of ill-reputable birth his _brother . . ._ for him to warmly consider a common planter, no matter his renown won in war, his _father_ . . . for Lafayette to call the democratic land of America the home of his heart, and consider the liberties enjoyed by her citizens the dearest wish of all men . . . what more held to the values of the Jacobins than that? For the wheel of revolution - the same one that _Lafayette himself_ had set into motion - to crush him underneath its unmanageable weight due to the blind hatred and ignorant intolerance of the long oppressed masses . . .  
  
There was no sane reasoning, no justifiable logic to be found; Hamilton could not wrap his mind around the truth written so plainly in Adrienne's letters, no matter how he tried.  
  
. . . and now the Austrians and Prussians feared him for the seeds of _rebellion_ he could plant in the hearts of their own peoples. There was no safe-haven for Lafayette in Europe, not in his homeland or in the neighboring kingdoms. There was no understanding country but for the one far across the sea, and for America's hands to be tied by their very own decree to stand firmly at neutrality . . .  
  
Thomas Jefferson's eyes, Hamilton hated to see, held a sneering shade of triumph within. _Do you not see what your inaction has born?_ his lazy ease seemed to say. _Do you not wish you had listened to m_ _y wisdom_ _sooner?_ his smile seemed to etch an accusation into the silence. In that moment, Hamilton dearly wanted to punch him; he did not even have _words_ for his fellow secretary.  
  
“I am heading out to greet the . . . unofficial delegation from Emperor Francis,” Washington continued in a scathing tone. Hamilton fought the urge he had to snort, already well knowing that they had no _official_ ties with either Prussia or Austria, and thus no ambassadors to treat with. Their country was too young, too democratic, for that. But there were already _envoys_ with their hands out, waiting the same as a priest lingering expectantly before a pew, collection plate held in hand. The flagrancy of the nations, Hamilton was coming to find, was mind-blowing.  
  
“By the end of the day,” the note of command was impossible to miss in their president's voice, “I want ideas for a course of action presented to me. Our government can do nothing officially, and my own private . . . _donations_ on so many sides can only last for so long. But I trust that you can put your heads together to find a way to keep them alive – all of them. I do not care,” Washington's voice was a low, smoldering lash of sound as he stared down Jefferson, all but daring him to speak, “about your personal differences. The friendship you _both_ bear this man is greater than any feud between you, and America . . . ” but, abruptly, he clipped his sentence. For a moment he did not speak. Hamilton imagined that he quite simply _could not_ speak as an uncharacteristic surge of emotion spilled across his face like a wave before retreating again. “America . . . she will not forget her sons. So we _will_ bring him home. Figure it out, _now,_ the both of you. That's an order as clear as I can make it.”  
  
Silence met the finality of his decree; there was nothing either man could say in response. Nodding his head in satisfaction, Washington took a last moment to collect himself, and then, with a final, hard stare at them each he turned, and was gone.  
  
Hamilton, in his own turn, was quiet as he corralled his emotions. He could not bring himself to look at the man across the table. Not yet. Not until -  
  
\- Jefferson shook his head, and what might have been a grin tugged darkly on the corner of his mouth. He swallowed an acerbic chuckle, but not quickly enough to escape notice with the sound. Seeing his reaction, something inside of Hamilton snapped.  
  
“Are you happy now?” he could not keep himself from seething, low and deep in his throat. “This is what your _mob_ has created; their reign of terror is no better than the indifference of the kings and queens reigning before them. In some ways, it's twice as needlessly cruel and bloody. For them take an _ally_ as Lafayette and instead . . .” But the meaning behind his words was too great a well within him, he could not yet give such a fount a voice.  
  
“Lafayette's mistake was still favoring a monarchy, along with a constitution to grant power to the people; the two cannot, and should not, exist side by side." Within, Hamilton heard the unspoken accusation: Jefferson still considered him a closet monarchist for his opinions on a strong central government, no matter every evidence he had to the contrary. He was baffled that the state secretary chose _then_ to work in yet another personal barb. "What can I say? Revolution is messy,” Jefferson had the audacity to shrug as he continued, “and bloody. You were a soldier during our own . . . _tiffs_ with the British crown; you know that truth better than most.”  
  
“We declared our independence with _order_ , with every avenue for reconciliation and equal rights under England's rule first taken and exhausted. After, that same such _order_ allowed us to create a free, _organized_ government when their yoke was overthrown. I want the same freedoms for France, just as _Gilbert_ does. Liberty, when sought with humanity and justice should command the admiration of the globe, but when liberty is placed above order, morality, tolerance, and the basic rights afforded by the simple-most laws of nature . . . when _freedom_ is sought with such savagery and wanton cruelty . . . This . . . this _anarchy_ France is plagued with instead of a monarchy . . . no, I cannot champion it. I cannot condone it . . . and, what's more than that, I do not understand how _you_ can.”  
  
Jefferson, when he finally deigned to turn and meet his eyes, had a cold, dark cast to his gaze that, for a moment, Hamilton found unsettling. A chill traced its claw-like hands up and down his spine as he imagined the Virginian staring at his first draft of the Declaration in much the same way. Warily, he exhaled, his still pulsating wartime senses whispering _foe_ and _danger_. His weight shifted; unwittingly, he took on a soldier's stance, even while seated.  
  
“Do you think that I _want_ this bloodshed in France?” Jefferson's defense was a whispered sting of words. “No, I do not. I wish for better for Lafayette; of course I do, I'm his _friend_. And yet, rather would I see only an _Adam_ and an _Eve_ left in every country and see it a _free_ country than have it languish under the grip of a dictator, beyond the people's control. Should half the world's population fall in such a pursuit, I would call it a fitting price paid. There is no cost too high, not for this . . . and if it is demanded that even our friends must pay it . . . well, such are the birth-pains of democracy.”  
  
In answer, Hamilton only blinked. He stared. After a moment, his words, how they flooded him in reply. How could this . . . this _slave-owner_ , who held the chains of _hundreds_ in his hands . . . who refused to release the chains of his _own_ unacknowledged mulatto children, even . . . How this man, who had been unable to even _attempt_ to feed Lafayette's army when he kept Cornwallis at bay from seizing Virginia due to his ridiculous principles of self-governing . . . who ran like a _craven_ from his governor's palace when Benedict Arnold set a torch to his state . . . How he could sit there and talk about _cost_ , when he was never the one to personally _pay_ the price? _Hypocrite . . . Viper . . ._ _Sophist_ _._ For a moment, the sudden swell of hatred he felt blinded him. Lafayette had seen a good man in Thomas Jefferson, and respected him – even _loved_ him in the amazing generosity of his heart, but Hamilton, in that moment, could not do the same. He would not ever.  
  
And yet . . . his rage would not help his friend. Not then. It was impotent; it had no place. Instead of speaking, Hamilton swallowed his useless words. He breathed in deep through his nose, and let his breath out slowly through his mouth. He closed his eyes, and fought to drive the red haze from his vision with the same strength of will that refused to listen and hear: _good for nothing bastard;_ _up-jumped_ _orphan;_ _too loud little boy,_ _riding on Washington's_ _coattails_ _for some misplaced,_ sad _affection . . ._  
  
“For Lafayette, we are going to work together and fix this,” Hamilton at last ground the words out from between his teeth. His voice was a low, seething promise as his leashed words nonetheless tore the flesh on the underside of his tongue. “If you can't do that, then I suggest that you leave. I can figure this out on my own.” It was how he worked best, anyway.  
  
For a long moment, Hamilton thought that Jefferson would rise, and leave the room. He waited for it; a part of him even yearned for it. And yet: “For Mr. Motier, then,” Jefferson said, long after a pregnant pause had passed. He had never liked calling the Frenchman _marquis_ , and now, he would never have to again.  
  
“For _Gilbert_ ,” Hamilton vowed darkly, and picked up his quill. They had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Text** : To the great many who undoubtedly know more about this subject than me, it's probably glaringly obvious where I mashed together the timeline of the French Revolution to hit all the points I wanted to hit in this ficlet - which morphed from being a 500 word drivel, and part of a collection of such drivels, to _this_. Both Jefferson and Hamilton's thoughts on the French Revolution - a very complicated subject that I rather squashed into a few lines - are paraphrased, and even quoted outright, from bits and pieces of real letters. Yes, even the Adam and Eve line - my personal favourite. 
> 
> **The Aftermath** : In 1793/1794, Jefferson and Hamilton did successfully put their heads together to give Lafayette aid without stepping on the toes of their French allies and overstepping their aim of neutrality. They found a loophole to grant Lafayette back-pay, with interest, from his years serving as a major general during the Revolutionary War. They rushed it through Congress, and Washington immediately signed off on it - it was probably the quickest piece of legislature America has ever backed . . . ever. This money bought Lafayette relative comforts in prison, and along with diplomacy, the press, and personal appeals, eventually saw to his release.
> 
>  **Adrienne de Lafayette** : This amazing woman refused to divorce her husband and thus save herself and her children from the guillotine, as other French noblewomen did during the Terror. With American aid, she was released where a great many in her family were executed. She succeeded in smuggling her fifteen year old son, Georges, to America - where, initially, Washington heeded political advice and merely paid for Georges to attend Harvard, instead of staying with him for political ramifications. It did not take him long, however, to throw caution to the wind, and Georges stayed with George and Martha Washington until Lafayette was freed from prison and France was relatively safe(r) to return to.
> 
> Meanwhile, once freed from French prison, Adrienne sold the property she still had rights to under her mother's name, and travelled to Vienna to free her husband from the Austrians. When her efforts failed, she asked Emperor Francis if she could stay in prison with him. The emperor agreed, and she and her two daughters were moved into a cell next to Lafayette's. She wrote of the horrible conditions the prisoners endured, and she was soon sick herself. The emperor, embarrassed by the international scandal of her actions, would allow Adrienne to leave for medical attention only if she did not return to the prison after. Adrienne declined his offer. She endured with Lafayette until his release in 1797, right on the heels of Napoleon's coup in France. She suffered chronic illness from her incarceration, however, and the conditions she endured are thought to attribute to her death in 1807. That said, for the silver lining: Lafayette, though he adored his wife in his own way (they were an arranged child-marriage), it is safe to say that he did not love Adrienne romantically, as she did him, until those events took place. Afterwards, his letters move from courtly gallantry to true affection, and he matured as a husband and father for the hardships they endured together. So, there is a bittersweet beauty to their story. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [23](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701234) by [AdotHamburrger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdotHamburrger/pseuds/AdotHamburrger)




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